


On the Catwalk, Yeah

by rivers_bend



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 17:57:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2279283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Not gay, Niall,” croaks Harry’s right arse cheek. Or the weight on top of Harry’s right arse cheek anyway. Which is presumably Zayn’s head, given the context clues and the fact that last time Harry saw him, he was wearing a full face of Ace Frehley makeup and a spiked leather jacket.</i>
</p><p>  <i>“M’not gay either,” Harry points out. </i></p><p>  <i>“People can be bi,” Niall reminds both of them. “That’s also a thing.”</i></p><p> </p><p>Or the one where Harry Styles moves to London, becomes a model, and realizes that there's more to than one route to your dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Catwalk, Yeah

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jeyhawk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeyhawk/gifts).



> The Obvious: I do not know any of the people whose names and public personas are used in this story, and neither believe nor mean to imply it ever happened. 
> 
> Thank you to jeyhawk for her inspiring prompt, and eloiserummaging for her beta, which made this much better than it was. Sorry I'm stubborn about my punctuation.

Harry Styles’ dream of fame and fortune via the X-Factor, did not go as planned. He cried for three hours after Simon announced he was going home at the end of the first week of voting. When he’d made it thorough auditions and bootcamp and judges houses and onto the show, that had seemed like his golden ticket. Simon’s frown and the crowd’s sympathetic applause as he walked off the stage felt like everything he’d worked for was being flushed down the toilet. The little pep-talk the cameraman tried to give him about how you don’t necessarily have to come in first to make it didn’t help, either. You do, Harry’s pretty sure, at least have to make it to the top ten. Not that Harry had been rude enough to point that out. Trying to keep it together, he’d gone back to the house, where his mum helped him pack up his stuff. She took him to her hotel and rubbed his back while he sobbed. Harry was sure his life was over.

But the next day, after another good cry and a good cuddle and talking to from his mum about not giving up at the first hurdle, Harry found yesterday’s trousers and pulled out the slip of paper with a phone number on it that the producer had given him on the way out the door. “Call her,” he’d said. “Think about her offer.”

He hadn’t looked at the message at the time, and was expecting a music producer or something, but the note said Pauline Bishop of Soho Modeling Agency. Harry had never considered modeling. But it sounded like something one did in London, and that was at least part of his dream, so he called her back.

“I need you on the catwalk,” she said when he got past her receptionist and her assistant. “I have three photographers and two designers who want to work with you already. Are you still in town? We could have lunch. Bring your mother.” He was, so they did. 

He hadn’t taken much convincing. His mother, on the other hand, felt this was more trading in his dreams than following them on a different path. Harry saw it as a side road. 

He still does. One day, he’s totally going to be a rock star. He knows he’s got the talent. And modeling helps with the nerves he’s convinced had him losing votes when he got on that stage in front of the cameras. 

But, it’s his destiny. He’s got rock-star charm. Also, as his sister constantly complains, the charm for convincing their mum to let him do whatever he wants. In the end, Anne had hardly stood a chance against the combined might of Pauline’s words and Harry’s puppydog eyes. 

She did keep up her resistance until she saw the flat he’d be living in, though. Pauline cleverly didn’t show her Louis’ bedroom, which has consistently looked like a closet bomb went off in it for at least the year Harry’s lived here now, and often looks like a tea shop exploded as well. But that day, the common areas had been tidy and clean, Liam and Zayn’s room was at average teen boy level of messy, and the room Harry would be sharing with Niall if only his mum would say yes, was pin neat, but homey and welcoming. Even still she’d hedged. She finally caved when Niall brought her a perfect cup of tea and showed her the framed picture of his dad back home in Ireland, smiling and pointing at a picture of his son wearing school trousers in an M&S ad. 

“If you really want to do this, you can,” she finally said. “At least you’ll have people to take care of you.”

She wasn’t wrong about that. His flatmates are the best, and they all take care of each other. The modeling itself is sometimes fun, and sometimes so boring he wants to scream, but even though Pauline had exaggerated the number of people dying to work with him, there’s always a party to go to, girls to shag, and enough money, even after he’s put some away in his Uni account to please his mum. 

**

When his phone rings on the morning of September 14th, Harry is wearing nothing but booty shorts that barely cover his arse, and little Xs of bright-blue sticking plaster on his nipples. He can’t tell the difference between the carpet he’s lying on and his tongue, and there’s something very heavy, slightly sticky, and worryingly sharp pinning his legs to the floor. 

“Gah,” Harry says. He would like to answer his phone, because the ringer is turned up very loud, but he’d had to shove it down the front of his shorts, and the heavy, sticky, spiky thing is refusing to move. 

“Muuunngh,” Harry tries as his voicemail finally picks up and the ringing stops. 

“Zayn Malik, don’t tell me you finally pulled Hazza last night,” someone who sounds a lot like the still-drunk birthday boy says from behind him. 

“Not gay, Niall,” croaks Harry’s right arse cheek. Or the weight on top of Harry’s right arse cheek anyway. Which is presumably Zayn’s head, given the context clues and the fact that last time Harry saw him, he was wearing a full face of Ace Frehley makeup and a spiked leather jacket.

“M’not gay either,” Harry points out. 

“People can be bi,” Niall reminds both of them. “That’s also a thing.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, making an effort to not speak directly into the carpet. Zayn still hasn’t moved off his legs. “But isn’t wanting to get up on someone’s dick a requirement?” 

“True,” Niall says, moving around so Harry can see him, at least from the knees down. Any more is too much effort. “Liking dick is definitely a thing.”

“He sure likes his own dick,” Zayn mutters. His words are punctuated by the trill announcing Harry’s caller left a message.

“Because my dick is _amazing_. Also, please get off me. I’ve got two dead legs and a voicemail.” 

It takes several more minutes, and the efforts of both Niall and a girl with coppery hair who’s been on Pauline’s books about a month, but whom Harry’s not worked with yet and whose name he can’t remember, to get Zayn off of him, but finally he can sit up and retrieve his phone from his shorts. 

“Ew,” the girl says when she sees him. “Who keeps their phone in their pants?” 

“Sometimes he hides it in his hair,” Niall says. Her disapproving expression vanishes and she laughs much longer and harder than that deserves. Harry suspects the fact she’s still here and the fact Niall’s still awake are related. 

“Ha, ha,” Harry says dryly, when she’s stopped laughing enough Niall will hear him. Not that Harry’s actually angry. He and Niall have a complex system of taking the piss out of each other, and Harry’s hair is always fair game. “Lemme listen to this.” 

The call is from Pauline, and she’s very excited, and just had to tell him right away that Henry Holland wants Harry to walk his Fashion Week show. He’s a last minute fill-in, but she’s sure Henry will love him, and is convinced this is heralding a new era for Harry’s career. He’s doing okay with catalogue shoots and the odd magazine ad, but you need runway work to really make it big, and while it’s not his real dream, he’d hardly turn it down. 

Niall and the ginger girl give him high fives when he tells them, and Zayn gives him a thumbs up from where he’s gone mostly back to sleep on the floor. In his excitement, Harry can hardly feel his hangover anymore. 

**

Henry’s line suits Harry well, showing off his legs, and not over-emphasizing that he hasn’t exactly got broad across the shoulders yet. Bonus, he—for once—doesn’t hate what the stylist does with his hair for the show. It’s high at the front and pushed back at the sides, not unlike Henry Holland’s, actually, and it makes him feel a bit like Elvis. 

As he’s walking to the end of the runway, Harry tries his best to keep his eyes up and his expression blank, but from the wings he’d noticed that unlike a lot of the shows, where the front row is stuffed with Hollywood actors and aging fashion mavens, Henry’s front row is packed with people Harry knows from _Heat_ and _The Metro_ and the fashion blogs Pauline thinks they should all be following. People Harry used to fantasize about hanging out with when he became the next Chris Martin. As he waited his turn, he spied David Gandy; Agyness Deyn next to a soap actor Harry recognizes but can’t name; Kelly Osbourne and Pixie Geldof flanking Nick Grimshaw off the radio, and, just as he got his signal to walk, Poppy Delevingne sitting with them. Harry’s got friendly with Poppy’s sister Cara recently, and Cara introduced them at the last party they were all at. He’s supposed to be thinking, _Walk. Walk. Walk. Walk,_ but instead he’s wondering if maybe Poppy could be his in to London’s It Crowd du jour. 

He does okay going down, and executes his turn at the end perfectly, but the return journey does not go smoothly. He passes Agyness, David, and the soap star, and then right in front of Kelly Osbourne Harry trips on his own feet and lurches toward the side of the runway. It’s _just_ what he promised Pauline he wouldn’t do, and is the whole reason she put him in those intensive walking classes. Though the classes also taught stumbling recovery, and maybe he can thank them for the fact he doesn’t land in Nick Grimshaw and Pixie Geldof’s laps. 

He’d love to think he recovered smoothly enough no one notices, but he looks up to see Nick Grimshaw looking right at him, hands up to his face, clearly trying not to laugh. Harry doesn’t dare smile back—he might be forgiven stumbling, but grinning at the audience is not on _at all_. 

He should probably want nothing more than for a hole to open up and swallow him, but Nick’s badly smothered smile just makes Harry want to meet him even more. Nick’s always been hilarious on TV and on the radio, and Harry needs him to know Harry’s got a sense of humour too. That his catwalk face doesn’t mean he’s cross with Nick for laughing at him. 

It turns out Poppy doesn’t stick around, but Harry doesn’t need her for introductions after all. He’s back in his jeans and plain white tee—though he’s still wearing the boots they put him in for the show; he kind of wants to never take them off, though he knows someone will notice before he’s allowed to abscond with them—when Nick Grimshaw himself comes over and says, “Hi, I’m Nick. Hen says your name is Harry.” 

The “Hen” throws Harry for a second before he remembers reading in some fashion week profile that Henry Holland, rising fashion star, used to be roommates with Nick Grimshaw from Radio 1. “I am,” Harry says, taking advantage of the opportunity to turn the full force of his smile in Nick’s direction. 

Nick returns it with interest. “Not that he had to tell me. I remember you from X-Factor last year.” 

Harry finds that hard to believe, but he feels himself flushing with pleasure. “Not sure I was that memorable.” 

With a little nose wrinkle, Nick protests, “Come on. Who could forget that smile of yours?” 

“Grim,” Pixie Geldof interrupts, “that is the cheesiest line in the world. You need new material.” 

“Hey,” Nick complains, elbowing her in the arm. “It’s not a line. Besides. It worked, didn’t it? I got him to smile again.”

Harry laughs right out loud. It hadn’t occurred to him that Nick might be flirting, but now that Pixie’s said, he definitely is. Nick Grimshaw, who’s friends with rock stars’ kids and famous DJs and people off the telly, is flirting with Harry Styles, who didn’t even last two weeks on X-Factor. 

It makes Harry’s day.

**

It makes his week. Despite Pixie’s taking the piss, Nick stays, and keeps gently flirting, which is flattering as hell, and he’s even funnier in person, and has a filthy mouth as well, which Harry appreciates. Best of all, he asks for Harry’s phone number when the time comes to part ways—which is to say when the dresser comes looking for Harry’s boots, because Henry’s group have to give the space up to someone else—and he and Harry have been BBMing ever since. 

They’ve also gone for coffee twice, lunch once, and an early dinner that lasted until Nick had to leave for work—though Niall claims it really lasted until gone midnight, because Harry went into the studio with Nick and stayed until the show was over. 

Wednesday night, two weeks or so after Henry’s show, Harry and Niall have turned down Louis, Zayn, and Liam’s entreaties to come party with them. Niall has an early call in the morning, and Harry’s had a long day. They’ve both gone to bed, but now he’s lying down Harry’s not as tired as he thought. Well, he’s texting with Nick and doesn’t want to go to sleep. Harry’s turned the ringer and the vibrate off on his phone, but there’s nothing he can do about the way it lights up every time Nick sends him a message. 

“Harry Edward Styles, if that phone lights up again, I am coming over there and sitting on your head,” Niall grumbles. “I had cabbage for tea, just to warn you.” He did. Harry had some too. But Niall is much better than he is at farting on command. 

“Sorry,” Harry says, even though it’s not his fault Nick needs an audience for the extremely juicy gossip Aimee told him that he absolutely, under pain of death, cannot share on the radio. 

“If you need to text your new boyfriend, just go in the lounge. Or under your duvet?”

“Not my boyfriend,” Harry says. Nick is lovely. And hilarious. Almost every time they see each other, he’s made Harry laugh so hard he’s nearly sick at least once. And he laughs at Harry’s jokes too, even the ones that Niall rolls his eyes at. Nick feels like a little bit of home. 

But Harry likes girls. Just because Niall is bi, doesn’t mean Harry is. 

Niall groans. “Your friend. Who is a boy. Let me sleeeeeep, Haz.” 

Harry checks the time. Nick’s got another forty minutes left on his show, and realistically, Harry’s not going to sleep until Nick’s off the air and on to whatever he’s doing after. “I’ll go in the other room,” he says, crawling out of bed. He stops to give Niall a kiss on the top of his fluffy head, and goes to set up camp on the sofa. 

**

 

On Halloween, Nick’s playing a ball at Sussex Uni, and invites Harry to come with. “It won’t matter that you’re not a student,” he promises. “I’ve done hundreds of these. They’ll never notice. If they ask, I’ll just say you’re my assistant. Could be a good place to pull if you want an older woman.” 

“I’m not _that_ young,” Harry complains. Nick’s taken to teasing him almost constantly about his age since a shop assistant thought Nick was his dad when Harry ran into him at Top Man last week and proceeded to trail with him around the shops for the next four hours. Harry’s convinced Nick’s only teasing to rob Harry of the chance to tease Nick about being old, but Harry wouldn’t anyway. He doesn’t really ever think about Nick’s age; he doesn’t seem any older than any of Harry’s other friends, anyway. 

“Still. Bet you twenty quid you pull a third year in a naughty mouse cozzie like what’s her chops in _Mean Girls_.” 

“I won’t,” Harry says stubbornly. Not that he’d mind pulling a third year, in whatever costume she wanted to wear. But _Mean Girls_ came out forever ago.

 

Nick was right about one thing: it’s easy for Harry to just walk in with him. Nick’s wearing a pale-pink suit with a Hawaiian shirt underneath, and has an inflatable toy camera on a strap around his neck. Harry helped him smear his face and outfit with ‘blood’. He claims to be a zombie tourist. Harry’s borrowed Zayn’s Kiss costume, and thrown in a set of Poundland vampire fangs for good measure. The students are in everything from American-style Naughty Nurse outfits, to much more elaborate zombies than Harry and Nick had managed with nothing but an old red lipstick they found in Nick’s bathroom. There’s even one person clearing a path through the crowd in a purple dragon costume that’s at least two and a half metres long. A student in a wedding dress and rubber monster mask is in charge of the sound system when they get there. She’s not having much luck getting people on the dance floor, so she seems happy to hand it over. 

When Nick’s all plugged in and ready, the monster bride grabs a mic and introduces him. He opens with _Thriller_ , and the whole room rushes the dance floor. 

No one tells Harry he needs to leave the podium, so he doesn’t. He’s behind Nick and a bit off to his right, about two feet above him on a little platform, and he has an amazing view. Much better than the BBC studios where everyone’s in so much motion that Harry’s constantly distracted by having to keep out the way, or sat too far away to really see anything. Here, he can see the crowd, and the way Nick works them with the music, calling out to them between tracks, keeping them engaged. But even better, the way he works the decks. 

The lights are dim, but there’s enough to see the pale flash of his wrists poking out of the rolled-up sleeves of his jacket, and the long stretch of his fingers working controls Harry doesn’t understand. They dart up occasionally to twist his quiff and fold it back over the arch of his headset, somewhat ruining the zombie effect they’d been going for, but suiting Nick to a T. Harry has his own ‘hair tic’ as Louis calls it, sweeping it to the side and pulling it forward, and more than once, Nick’s producer has accused them of winding each other up into a frenzy of hair playing. Apparently it’s catching like yawns are. Harry can’t play with his now, though, because it’s got so much product in it it’s like a bike helmet. 

About forty minutes into his set, Nick stretches, and turns around, and nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees Harry sitting there on the rail. He tries to say something, but Harry can just see his mouth moving, so Nick beckons him to come close. 

“I thought you were dancing,” he shouts over the music. “How long have you been sitting there?” 

Harry shrugs. “The whole time?” 

“Go, you daft boy!” Nick shoos him toward the dance floor. “Look at all those hot girls waiting to get with a model from London.”

The dance floor is a sea of flashing lights bouncing off sequins and glitter and body paint. He doesn’t see anyone he particularly feels like pulling, but he dutifully trots off anyway, if only so he has something more than _I watched Nick DJ_ to tell his flatmates about his trip to Brighton. 

 

Turns out Nick was right about the other thing to. Mostly. Harry doesn’t pull a girl in a naughty mouse costume, but he does dirty dance with a girl in a tiny pink t-shirt with _Mean Girl_ written on it in fancy glitter script. She’s got a bloody plastic axe on an Alice band so it looks like she’s been hit in the head with it. 

“I’d snog you,” she shouts in his ear with both hands on his arse and her thigh grinding up on his dick, “but I don’t want your makeup on my face.” 

“That’s okay,” Harry tells her. He wouldn’t mind kissing her, but this is pretty great too. 

Until she gets called away by her friend, leaving Harry hard and randy and unable to stop thinking about how good she smelled and how firm her thigh was against his junk. He needs some air.

Trying to find the door outside, he finds the men’s, and veers in there instead. Three or four blokes are clustered around the urinal, but someone’s just coming out of a cubicle, so Harry takes it. The others should have been paying attention if they wanted it. He eases his zip down over his cock and pulls it out. 

He’s just gonna take a piss, he really is, but he’s still pretty hard. Hard enough his hand feels good, and squeezing a little feels even better. No one’s paying attention to him; they all seem to know each other and are caught up in a conversation about football that’s easy to tune out. He thinks instead about the mean-girl girl, who wasn’t mean at all, about how she was all over his arse, squeezing and squeezing as she pulled him tight against her, how good it felt. 

Reaching back to his arse with his free hand, he gives it a squeeze. It doesn’t feel as good as when she did it, but it still makes his dick jump in his hand. They were pretty close to the front. Harry wonders if Nick saw them. If he could read her shirt, and if he was thinking about how he’d won their bet. 

She had really nice hands. They’d feel good on his dick. He closes his eyes and imagines, jerking faster, trying to keep his breathing slow and steady in case the football talk stops. He’s close. Fucking close. A little bit more— Shit, yes.

Thanks to years of practice, he comes neatly in the loo, flushing before his dick’s stopped twitching in order to cover up the smell—not that it’s enough to overpower the urinal cakes anyway—then takes a deep breath and has a piss. _Classy_ , he thinks. But whatever. He can see each of the boys’ faces—Niall’s laughing to Liam’s shocked—when he tells them he had a wank in the student union toilets, and it’s not like it’s a story he has to tell over Christmas dinner at his mum’s. 

When he comes out, the football boys have been replaced with two blokes dressed as Death, arguing about a girl in one of their lectures. Harry tries not to look too pleased with himself as he washes his hands. 

Feeling better, he goes to find a drink. 

That takes a while, but eventually, pint glass filled with the Halloween special—he has no idea what’s in it, but it glows—in hand, he makes his way to the edges of the crowd where the music’s a bit quieter, and people are mingling. He tries to chat to a few people, but even away from the dance floor it’s way too loud for conversation, so in the end he goes back to Nick’s DJ booth and takes up his perch on the little platform again. Nick gives him a wink and a thumbs up, so Harry figures he did see him out on the dance floor despite the club lighting. Harry can’t decide if he should tell Nick what happened after or not. 

 

In the end, though, he falls asleep almost as soon as they get in Nick’s car, vaguely aware of the radio playing and the cold of the window glass against his cheek, but nothing else, until Nick’s shaking him awake, stopped in the road outside his flat. 

“Nice,” Nick says when Harry blinks up at him sleepily. “Everyone’s going to think I kidnapped a clown.” 

Harry’s confusion must be written on his face, because Nick points over Harry’s shoulder until he turns to see the great white smear on the glass. “Oh,” Harry says, dismayed all out of proportion to his crime, the way he always is when he’s tired. “Sorry. I can clean it.” 

Nick’s laugh is low and warm. “No worries. I’ve got it. Are you going to be okay getting upstairs, or do I need to find a place to park?” 

Harry wiggles his toes and gives his thighs a squeeze. Everything seems to be in working order. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “Thanks, though.” 

Nick gives him a pat on the shoulder, then leans over him to open the door. “Out you get, then. Don’t let the ghoulies and goblins get you.” 

“They wouldn’t want me,” Harry assures him. “’M too sweet.” Harry’s mother has told him this his whole life, and Harry’s always chosen to believe it. 

Nick does that low warm laugh again. “If you say so.” He gives Harry a little push. 

“I say so,” Harry says, finally climbing out of the car. “G’night.” He waves, almost forgetting to pull his hand out of the way before shutting the car door. 

“Night,” Nick calls, loud enough to be heard through the glass. He waits until Harry’s got the building door unlocked before pulling out and heading back to Primrose Hill. One foot in front of the other, which is the only way to get it done, Harry climbs the stairs to bed.

 

When Harry was in school, Christmas shopping felt like a chore. The shops never had anything really worth buying, and it was always easier to find stuff he wanted for himself than anything he thought his mum or Gemma might want. But now he has more money, and London has a billion more shops than Holmes Chapel, or even the bit in walking distance of the train station in Manchester, so it’s much more fun. 

He and the rest of the lads do a preliminary excursion on a rare day they’re all off together, during which Niall and Harry make careful lists—Harry possibly buys himself just one, tiny, not expensive at all, leather-bound notebook to write his in because he forgot a piece of paper—Louis promises he’s only looking but then buys at least ten things for his sisters, Zayn sends a bunch of picture texts to his mum to make sure the things he’s picking out aren’t anything his sisters already have, and Liam spends a worryingly long time looking at the puppies in the window of a pet shop. 

They arrive home over-caffeinated and jittery, and order some pizzas. The others play video games while Harry wraps Louis’s sisters’ presents, because Harry’s the best at wrapping and the worst at FIFA. When Louis loses, he complains that it’s only because Harry kept interrupting him to double and triple check he was putting the right names on the right gifts. It’s true Harry had asked a few times, but he didn’t want to get it wrong. It’s okay though, because Louis cheers up again when Liam lets him win at wrestling. 

They’re arguing over what film they should watch, or rather, Zayn, Liam, and Harry are arguing while Louis IMs his girlfriend and Niall watches them all from his spot in the corner of the sofa, when Harry’s phone starts blasting out Gloria Gaynor at top volume, echoing off the coffee table where he’d stupidly left it when he was wrapping prezzies earlier. _Someone_ obviously thinks it’s hilarious to play with his ringtone settings. 

“ _You_ won't survive!” he cries in general warning to the room, diving for his phone before it makes the neighbours call in a noise complaint. Again. 

Nick’s concentratey face shines up at him. Harry’d snapped it one of the nights he’d gone in to hang out with Nick during his show, and caught him trying to find the sound effect he wanted to play at the perfect point in a clip. He’s got his headphones on and one hand holding his fringe out of his eyes, and he makes DJing look like the most serious job ever. Harry loves it, because the other 99% of the time, Nick makes being a DJ look like the most fun you can have and still get paid. 

“Hey,” he says, answering, standing to go in the other room. Nick isn’t really one for phone calls—they usually just text—so Harry’s worried something’s up. “Alright?” 

“Hey,” Nick says. His voice is warm, a mimic of Harry’s slow drawl, so it can’t be anything too bad. He hopes. “Two things. One, Sunday lunch tomorrow, even though it’s Saturday. Can you come? I’m shopping now.” 

Harry thinks. He doesn’t have anything on, and none of the boys have mentioned plans, so Nick can have first dibs. “I love Sunday lunch, no matter what day. What are you buying?” 

“That,” Nick says, “is a surprise.” There’s a metallic noise and a shuffly sound, and Nick saying ‘sorry’ low in the background, then he comes back. “Ran my trolley into a freezer case,” Nick explains. “Right in front of someone trying to stock it.” 

“Pull into a lay-by if you need to use your phone,” Harry intones in his best safety-video voice. 

“Shut it, you.” Nick huffs a laugh despite his stern words. “So. Dinner. A yes. What was the second thing?” 

Harry’s slumped against the wall in the hall between the lounge and the bathroom, where he’d ended up when he realized he didn’t strictly need privacy, but didn’t quite want to go back to the others yet either. It’s dim and stuffy, and he can so clearly picture Nick in the bright chill of the freezer aisle, trying not to run over the poor stock person. He grins so wide he can feel it in his ears. “ _I_ don’t know, do I? You’re the one who called me.”

“Second thing. Second thing… Oh yeah. I got nominated to host the New Year’s Eve party this year. D’you want to come?” 

“Nominated by who?” Harry had planned to go home for the holidays, and probably not come back until January 3rd, when Gem would be going back to uni, but a celebrity New Year’s Eve party is too good to pass up. 

“It won’t be fancy. At my flat, so only twenty or thirty people. None of us could be bothered with a hotel party, and I don’t have a gig this year.” 

“Yes,” Harry says, trying to keep at least some of the excitement out of his voice. He thinks it mostly sounds happy but not like he’s insane. Or twelve. 

“You can—” there’s another metallic noise and some muffled swearing. “You can bring a date, or, whatever. If you had someone you were going to go out with.” 

Nick sounds a bit odd, maybe because he’s just driven his trolley into another obstacle. “Was most likely going to go out with my sister,” Harry says. “But she’ll be up home, so probably just me.” He could, he’s sure, find a date to bring, but there’s no one he particularly fancies at the moment. Unless— “Is it going to be like that? Everyone bringing dates? Should I find someone?” 

“No,” Nick says hurriedly. “No. Plenty of single people looking for someone to snog at midnight.” 

“Good,” Harry says. “Fine. Lunch tomorrow, and New Year’s on, well, New Year’s, I guess. Anything else? Or was it really only two things?” 

“No. Just that. Unless… How do you feel about Yorkshire puds?”

“I feel pretty good about them,” Harry answers. He’s picturing Nick debating one or two packets, holding them over the trolley in indecision. “Get lots.” 

“Good lad.” Another shuffly noise. “Lots it is. See you tomorrow. One o’clock okay?” 

“One. Should I bring anything?” 

“Just your smile, since if I recall correctly, you’re still too young to buy wine.” 

“Rude,” Harry says, laughing. Nick disconnects the call. Harry shoves his phone in his pocket, but stays where he is a moment, holding onto the excitement of his life. Shopping on Oxford Street and in Camden with his mates, Sunday dinners with radio DJs who he used to watch on the tele when he was in school, and a Kate Spade purse for his sister’s Christmas present. 

“Harold,” Louis calls from the lounge, “did you die in there? The film’s starting.” 

“Coming,” Harry says, going to join them.

**

Sunday lunch on a Saturday is fun. Harry turns up empty handed as bidden, and promptly gets sent to the corner shop to buy milk— _some_ people want it in their tea apparently, Nick complains, rolling his eyes at the cluster of people in his lounge—but when he gets back, Nick introduces him around, and Harry makes himself popular filling tea orders. Nick must have talked about him, because even the people he’s not met before seem to know who he is. 

Actual Daisy Lowe, who Harry’s seen in her underwear on the internet, is there, and is completely lovely. Harry’s quite proud that he doesn’t mention the underwear thing, or stare, even though she’s wearing a white t-shirt over a black bra, and she’s got really, _really_ great breasts. Harry’s seated between her and a bloke named George at the table, with Nick at the head on Daisy’s other side. Henry—who is much more relaxed when he’s not trying to show his clothes—is on Nick’s left, with a girl named something Harry can’t remember that he thinks might be Gillian next to him. Then Pixie, who asks if he’s fallen off any catwalks lately, an amazing woman called Aimee at the foot, who’s American and has bright orange hair, and on George’s other side, a pretty blonde boy who hasn’t said a word to Harry, and who’d looked disappointed when Nick took the seat at the opposite end of the table and given Aimee the one next to him. 

There’s a ton of food and even more wine, and they eat and talk and laugh until the sun has well and truly set and the conservatory is dim and moody in candlelight, before retiring to the sofas to drink some more. The blond whose name Harry never did catch leaves first, with Henry and Gellz taking off soon after, and Harry wonders if he should go as well. But he’s comfy wedged between Daisy and Pixie, and Nick is swanning around playing CDs and making sure everyone’s glass is full, so probably it’s okay if he stays. 

Around half eight, Harry gets up to use the loo. He has to walk through Nick’s bedroom to get to it, but he resists looking around on his way, even after several more glasses of wine than he maybe should have had, because that’s rude and his mother didn’t raise him to be rude. Even without looking around, though, he’s gone long enough that he’s lost his seat by the time he gets back. George has taken it, and is lying across Pixie’s lap with his legs propped on the sofa arm next to Daisy. He looks very comfortable, and not at all like he’s planning on moving. But that’s okay, because Aimee’s standing, saying something about going to call her parents, and there’s two whole cushions next to Nick. 

“Hi,” Harry says, aware that he’s hovering, but feeling odd about sitting without an invitation. 

“Hi,” Nick says back. “You alright?” 

“Yeah.” Harry’s good. “I’m good.” But he’d really like to sit. “Can I—?” He gestures at the expanse of sofa to Nick’s right. 

“Do you need a lie down as well? George is flirting, I think—” that gets him two raised fingers from George— “but make yourself at home.” 

Daisy and Pixie are both smirking, but Nick’s just smiling, and lying down does sound nice. 

“Here,” Nick says, throwing a pillow toward the opposite end of the sofa. “Head on that, legs up here,” he pats his lap, “Aimee’ll be ages on the phone.” 

Harry does as he’s told. And Nick was right. Lying down is lovely. Nick is lovely, and his friends are lovely, and Harry’s so glad Henry wanted him to walk in his show and introduced them. “S’lovely,” Harry says, sleepily. With the hand not holding his wine, Nick gives Harry’s knee a little squeeze. He leaves it there after, and that’s lovely too. 

It’s not late. Not at all, but Harry has had rather more wine than he’s used to, and a lot of potatoes, and gravy and Yorkshire pudding, and with the soft lights and the low music, and the hum of conversation, Harry falls asleep. 

 

When he wakes up, it’s to Nick gently shaking his left leg, and the bustle of Pixie, Daisy, and George putting on their coats. He’s rolled onto his side in his sleep, and he’s got dead arm where he’d pinned it under himself. “Time’z’it?” he mutters into his shoulder. 

“Half past eleven,” Aimee says in her American twang. She’s standing over him with a pile of blankets. “Maybe you should sleep over. Afraid to say I’ve already got dibs on the bed, but the couch isn’t bad.” 

“Or we can get you a cab. You don’t have to stay.” Nick’s stroking the side of Harry’s leg just above his knee. It’s nice, and very relaxing, and making it hard to think. 

“I brought cab fare,” he says, because it sounded a little like Nick was offering to pay. Harry doesn’t need him to do that. 

“Either way,” Nick says. “Money’ll still be there in the morning. I’ve got spare toothbrushes.” 

A toothbrush sounds nice. Much nicer than going out into the cold and climbing stairs, and having to ride half-way across London. “Maybe stay,” he decides. “If that’s really okay.” 

“Grim would have a sleepover every night if he could,” Daisy says from the doorway. “Even the non-sexy kind with us girls.” 

“You’re never non-sexy, Lowe,” Nick says. Harry finds himself nodding in agreement without exactly meaning to. 

“If you’re getting more than a drunken snog and a grope, I want details, Aimee,” Daisy says, ignoring Nick’s blatant flattery. 

“You’ll need to get one of his boys to give you those,” Aimee replies, laughing. Harry’s head is spinning. He wants details too. About the snogging and the groping, but also maybe the other thing. From Nick’s sleepovers with boys. Niall has sleepovers with boys sometimes, but Harry’s never asked for details. 

“D’you need to text your flatmates?” Nick asks, easing out from under Harry’s legs. 

Harry should definitely do that. They try to let each other know when they’re not coming home. Harry struggles to sit up and dig his phone out of his pocket. Liam’s the first on his text list, so Harry picks him. _sleeping over home tomorrow_ he types, and hits send. Liam’s not always the best at checking texts, but if they’re worried about him, they’ll check everyone’s phones. While he was doing that, Aimee put the pile of blankets down next to him, and followed Nick toward the door where everyone’s saying goodbye. Harry should say goodbye.

He manages to get to the door, and gets a kiss on the cheek from Daisy and Pixie for his trouble, though he’s missed George, who’s run up the stairs to hold the cab. 

“Let’s brush your teeth and pop you back in bed,” Nick says. “We’ll have to remember not to feed you quite so much wine.” 

“Sorry if I embarrassed you,” Harry murmurs, letting himself be led toward the back of the flat. 

“No one embarrassed anyone,” Nick says. 

“Grim embarrassed me,” Aimee chimes in from somewhere behind them. “As per.” 

“You are a terrible person and I hate you,” Nick replies. 

“Shush,” Harry tells him. “Everyone is lovely.” 

They’ve reached the bathroom, and Nick props Harry up in front of the sink while he digs in the cupboard for a moment before standing triumphant with a toothbrush. “Green one,” he says, tearing it open. “Remember that for morning. Don’t go using Aimee’s. She’ll have your head. Trust me on this.” 

There’s a blue and a red toothbrush already in the holder next to the taps. “Green,” Harry says. “I like green.” He’s so stupidly tired. Nick’s going to think he’s simple. 

“Right, then.” Nick puts the toothbrush into Harry’s hand. “I’ll leave you to it. And put some water on the coffee table for you.” 

“See?” Harry says. “Lovely.” 

“ _You’re_ lovely, idiot. Now brush your teeth.” Nick leaves him alone. 

 

The next morning, Harry’s first awake. The sky is pinky grey through the conservatory windows, and Nick’s garden looks like an old black-and-white photograph on the other side of the glass. Harry needs a piss, but it’s not desperate yet; he could put the kettle on before he risks waking Nick and Aimee up going through to the bog. Weird design, that, really, having the only bathroom be the en suite, but this is a cool flat. He can see why Nick bought it. 

Harry spends the time the kettle’s boiling trying to imagine buying a flat of his own one day, but he can’t really do it. Living alone would be too weird, even if he had people to stay all the time like Nick does. Harry likes living with other people too much. Even having to share a room isn’t that bad. Not compared to never having someone there to talk to unless you could convince someone to come round.

And who would you make tea for if you lived alone? Or coffee. He knows that’s what Nick prefers, and he makes an assumption about Aimee based on a completely unscientific mix of nationality and personality, but he makes himself a proper cuppa, using the last of the milk he’d bought yesterday afternoon. There’s no tray to take the drinks through on, so Harry drinks enough of his tea to make him feel less fuzzy, then takes the coffees, hoping Nick and Aimee both like it black. 

Neither of them stirs when he pushes the door open, so he sets the offerings down on the chest of drawers and tiptoes to the bathroom. _Green_ , Harry thinks while he’s taking a piss. It takes turning around and seeing the three toothbrushes bunched in the holder to remember why. His is back-to-back with the red one, looking very seasonally appropriate. The blue one is off on its own. He wonders which one’s Nick’s and which is Aimee’s as he wets his and squeezes toothpaste onto it. 

 

When he eases out the door back into the bedroom, Aimee is sitting up, hair wild, the stretched-out neck of her t-shirt sagging below her collar bones. “I smell coffee,” she mumbles at him. As he goes to get one of the mugs off the chest of drawers, she adds, “Nice pants.” 

Harry’d forgotten he stripped off most of his clothes at some point in the night, and that he’s been wandering around Nick’s flat in nothing but a pair of neon orange and purple 2[x]ist trunks Louis liberated from a shoot and Harry liberated from Louis’s laundry. 

“Fucking hell,” Nick says with significant feeling from the bunched up pillow on his side of the bed. 

“You’re not dreaming,” Aimee tells him. “That’s young Harold. In his pants. He brought coffee.” 

“Fucking hell,” Nick says again, struggling up on one elbow while he uses that hand to cover his eyes, other hand held out, presumably for the mug. 

“Sorry,” Harry says. “Sorry. I— am not always good at clothes. I’m not even sure when I took them off.” 

“There is no need for apologies,” Aimee says. “Though that’s an amazing colour combination. I do think I’ll blame you if I end up asking my colourist for a purple streak in my hair.” 

“No,” Nick says, sounding pained. He takes an awkward sip of his coffee, hand still over his eyes. “No purple streaks.” He peeks out between two fingers. “Those are nice pants. Very bright for this hour. And—” 

“Very snug,” Aimee interrupts. 

“Don’t be rude,” Nick says, taking another sip of coffee and finally unhanding his face to fiddle with his hair. He really does have the longest fingers Harry’s ever seen. 

“That was a compliment, believe me,” Aimee assures him. Or assures Harry, given he’s the one she’s looking at. Harry should be embarrassed, probably, but he’s always liked being looked at, which is one of the things that’s good about being a model. 

Nick gives Aimee a narrow-eyed stare. “That’s not the kind of rude I meant and you know it. You’re old enough to be his mother. Down, girl.” 

“ _I_ —” Aimee looks pointedly at the pile of duvet bunched around Nick’s waist— “am not up.” 

For just a moment, Harry’s brain—or his dick—wonders what would happen if he crawled into bed between the two of them. “I should go,” he says. “Home. I’m back up my mum’s next week, and there’s loads to do.”

There’s not. Not really. Pre-Christmas drinks with the lads and exchanging presents, picking up the gifts he’s chosen for his family, an appointment with the hairdresser for a trim, throw some clothes in a bag and catch the train. And five days to do it all in. But he doesn’t have a duvet to hide behind if those idle thoughts of a threesome become less idle. 

“You’re coming back for Grim’s New Year’s party, though, right?” Aimee asks. The question seems pointed, but not like she’s flirting. Harry’s not actually sure if he’s disappointed or not. There’s something about the way Aimee and Nick casually touch each other that Harry really wants to get all up into. But he’s also pretty sure Aimee’s a bit more than he’s prepared to handle. And she’s definitely older than a university third year.

“I’ll be here,” Harry says. 

“You should wear those pants again,” Aimee tells him. 

“It’s not going to be that kind of party,” Nick says. “You can wear whatever pants you want.”

“Oh, Grim,” Aimee says, patting his arm. “Do you not remember the—” 

“I hope you have a good time at your mum’s” Nick says hastily. “G’us a text or something? I’d offer you breakfast, but I think it’s all cold sprouts and cheap Chardonay in the fridge.” 

Harry can’t help feeling a bit dismissed, even though he’s the one who’s just said he has to go home. But Nick’s being weird. Maybe Harry’s just got used to his flatmates not even noticing anymore when he’s only wearing his pants, and Nick’s used to his house-guests wearing pajamas. “That’s okay,” Harry says. “I prefer them hot. There was enough milk left for tea. That’ll do me.” 

“Lemme just—” Nick gestures towards the bathroom— “and I’ll see you out.”

“Thanks for the coffee,” Aimee says. “Grim, you should keep him.” 

Harry’s not sure what the noise Nick makes means. 

While Nick’s doing his thing, Harry pulls his clothes out of the sofa cushions, gets dressed, and folds up the blankets. He’s just debating whether he should go ahead and leave without saying goodbye when Nick comes out. He’s wearing a white shirt even more stretched out than Aimee’s, that says _Papa Don’t Preach_ in a hot-pink graffiti font on the front, with a pair of black boxer briefs peeking out below the hem. It makes Harry feel better about accidentally showing up in Nick’s room in nothing but his pants. 

“Aimee likes to make people blush,” Nick says when he sees Harry hovering by the coats. He’s loud enough that Aimee can probably hear him if she’s paying attention, but it’s not like Nick’s saying anything she doesn’t already know, Harry’s sure. 

Harry shrugs. “Anyone with a Debenhams catalogue’s seen me in swim trunks smaller than these pants. She’ll probably have to do worse than that to embarrass me.” 

“Shhh!” Nick makes elaborate shushing motions and glances dramatically over his shoulder, though Harry’s pretty sure his own voice didn’t carry. “Don’t tell her that. She’ll take it as a challenge.” 

Harry’s pleased. The way she was teasing, he’s pretty sure Aimee likes him. And if Nick’s worried about Aimee upsetting him, that means Nick wants him to like his friends. The only thing Harry likes better than being liked, is being liked by people he’s already decided are cool. “Well,” he says. “Wouldn’t want that.” 

Nick looks at him carefully. “I’m never leaving you two alone together. You’re both trouble.” 

“I think you like trouble,” Harry says. He’d got a pretty good chance to watch Nick’s friends yesterday before he fell asleep, and feels safe making this assessment. 

“Just as well,” Nick retorts. 

Harry pulls his coat off the hooks inside Nick’s door and shrugs it on. He likes it okay—better than any of the ones he’d had in school—but it’s not nearly as nice as some of Nick’s. One day Harry’d like to own one of the coats from the YSL winter collection instead of from M&S back-to-school. “Thank you for lunch,” he says. “And for letting me stay the night. Sorry I fell asleep.” 

Nick gives him a teasing smile. “Don’t do it again. Poor form. Very poor form.” He opens his arms, waiting for Harry to move in for a hug goodbye. Harry can definitely do that.

“Happy Christmas,” he says into Nick’s neck. Nick gives him an extra tight squeeze and says it back. Then Harry’s patting his pockets to check for his wallet and phone, and heading up the stairs to the street to find a taxi to take him home. 

**

Despite a rocky start where Harry missed two trains due to things completely beyond his control, and his mum wouldn’t answer her phone so was at the station hours early, his Christmas holidays are great. His mum’s cooking, piles of presents under the tree, drinks with his old friends from school, and catching up with his sister whom he’s hardly talked to since she went off to uni. She’s having an amazing time, and their mum makes sure Gem stresses that point to Harry, but Harry’s still not sure it’s what he wants to do. His life is pretty great at the moment. 

Especially the part where he gets to go to New Years parties with celebrities. The first person Harry sees when he walks into Nick’s flat is Florence Welch. 

She’s right _there_ over Nick’s shoulder, her head thrown back in laughter, a filmy sort of cape adorned with feathers hanging from her shoulders, a glass of wine in one hand, and what looks like a vol-au-vent in the other. 

“Is that Florence Welch?” Harry hisses at Nick, hopefully quietly enough she can’t hear him over the music and all the conversation. 

Nick turns his head to follow Harry’s gaze. “Oh,” he answers. “Yes. We’ve been mates for ages.” 

Of course they have. “Do you know _everyone_?”

Nick shrugs. “Mostly?” 

Of course he does. Daisy catches Harry’s eye from across the room and gives him a wave. 

“Go,” Nick says. “Mingle. I’ll get you a drink.” 

Harry does as he’s told. 

It takes a while for Nick to come back with a beer for him, but Daisy shares her glass of something warm and spiced and fruity that she swears isn’t mulled wine despite the evidence to the contrary, and Kelly Osborne lets him taste her champagne cocktail, so he’s not exactly suffering the wait. 

Harry’s on his fourth drink when he gets up the nerve to talk to Florence, who very kindly answers his questions about getting into the music industry, and even tolerates his extravagant compliments on her hair. He’s on his fifth when a girl in Minnie-Mouse ears and a red sequined dress catches him under the mistletoe hanging between the lounge and the kitchen and very thoroughly snogs him, earning them a round of applause from at least half the party. 

After that, he grazes the snacks set out on the kitchen island and has an oddly intense conversation about Jamie Oliver and Nigella Lawson with a bloke named Mike. 

While he’s mingling and drinking and eating hors d’oeuvres, Harry’s watching Nick play host. He makes it look like he’s not hosting at all, like he’s just partying with his friends, but every time someone looks a bit lost, Nick appears as if out of thin air to make an introduction or fill a glass or point out a recently vacated seat. Harry thinks he might be the youngest there, and there are a few people he reckons are his mum’s age, and everything in between as well. Nick has a lot of amazing friends. 

The dancing starts around eleven. Harry is… not a good dancer, but he’s too drunk to care. Besides, you don’t have to be that good when you’re sandwiched between two people with rhythm and their hands on your hips. At one point he’s in a grinding conga line with four people behind him and five in front, and at another he’s got Annie Mac’s hair up his nose and breasts pressed to his chest as Nick wraps his arms around them both from behind Harry’s back, pulling Annie close enough to say something in her ear. It’s squishy, but kind of cosy, and it makes him feel like he’s made it, even though he’s not sure where exactly _it_ is. 

At about ten to midnight, someone puts the countdown show on the telly, and the dancing breaks up so people can find a glass of champagne and someone to kiss at midnight. Harry ends up in a knot of people including Nick and Aimee and Daisy and a few people he hasn’t been introduced to yet, as the ten-second countdown begins. They get to one, and everyone cheers, and Daisy grabs him and plants one on him as Nick does the same to Aimee, and then they swap, Daisy squeezing Aimee’s cheeks with her palms and smacking her loudly on the lips, and Nick pulling Harry closer with an arm around his back and planting a tiny kiss on the corner of his mouth. 

Harry bristles at being thought either fragile or homophobic, and turns before Nick can pull away to catch his lips full on, looping an arm around his neck and pressing against him from knee to chest. 

Nick freezes for a second, but by the time that reaches Harry’s brain, Harry’s already licking at his mouth, turning the kiss into a proper snog, and Nick’s responding, shifting Harry against him and sucking gently on his tongue. They don’t stop until the crowd starts shooting party poppers at them. 

When Harry opens his eyes, Nick’s looking at him with a question in his eyes and paper streamers tangled in his curls. “Happy New Year,” he says when Harry blinks. His mouth is pink and soft looking and Harry wants to kiss him some more. Harry has no idea what to do with that desire.

So instead, he says, “Happy New Year,” back and doesn’t resist when Henry comes and pulls Nick out of Harry’s hands to give him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. There’s half a glass of champagne left in Harry’s hand, and he drinks it down in one go. 

 

After midnight, the guests go back to dancing, drinking, and chatting, and Harry joins in. He and Nick don’t talk again, though Harry finds himself tracking him as he laughs and flirts and makes his guests laugh with him. He also finds himself looking at Nick’s mouth. A lot. 

Around half two, the couple who’d offered to share a cab with Harry say suddenly that it’s here _right now_ and he has to join them or miss it, so he ends up waving frantically to Nick across the room, putting his phone to his ear to indicate he’ll ring, and running out into the cold still pulling his coat on. He spends half the trip home analyzing Nick’s face as he left, trying to figure out if it looked disappointed, and the other half composing a text. 

It’s not until he’s on the street outside his flat that he decides he’s happy with it and hits send. _Had an amazing time tonight. Thank you for having me. xx_ He’d tried replacing ‘having’ with inviting, four or five times, but he can’t resist the pun, and besides, he thinks maybe he’d liked being _had_.

**

Harry spends most of the first day of 2012 under his duvet, peering out only to drink the water Liam presses on him with his own face green-tinged and unable to make convincing the reassurance that it will help. Sometime around sunset, Harry gets up to piss and brush his teeth. 

He sulks for a bit that the other boys are still back home, because Liam has fallen back asleep, so there’s no one to put the kettle on or tell him what he should eat for dinner. No amount of muttering “accio tea” helps, so Harry pulls his phone out of his hoodie pocket and opens the conversation with Nick. There’s still no reply to his text from last night.

 _There’s no one to make me tea_ he sends with a frowny face. 

That gets no reply either, so he sends the same text to Gemma. She replies with a picture of a giant mug of tea, a plate of toast, and the corner of Dusty’s pretty kitty face. Sometimes Harry hates his sister. 

He’s debating whether it will annoy her more if he ignores her or sends more frowny faces, when Nick replies: _you need mcdonalds_.

He’s right. Harry definitely needs McDonalds. Why doesn’t McDonalds deliver? 

_Why don’t they deliver?_ Harry asks Nick.

_So I don’t get big as a house_

Nick seems very concerned about getting fat, but Harry can’t see it happening. _it would be worth it. DELIVERY. TO YOUR FLAT._

_You’re young. Stop being lazy and go get some._

It _is_ lazy, really. There’s a McDonalds less than three streets away. He would have to put trousers on, though. He doesn’t feel like trousers. He’s just started typing at Nick about how trousers are stupid, when movement from the direction of Liam’s bedroom door catches his attention. 

Liam appears, pale still, but dressed in trackies and socks and a giant hoodie zipped up to his chin. “You’re awake,” he says to Harry. 

“What would I have to do to convince you to get us McDonalds?

Liam looks suspicious. “Why do _I_ have to go?” 

Harry looks pointedly down at where his pants are peeping out from the hem of his hoodie. 

“It’s like you’re allergic to clothes,” Liam says. 

“I’ll do your washing up week,” Harry offers. “All seven days.” Liam hates his washing up week because it’s after Louis’s washing up week, and Louis is not exactly thorough. 

“Wow. You really want McDonalds.” 

Harry nods.

“Week of washing dishes, _and_ you buy me dinner, and I’ll do it.” 

Idly, and without really meaning it, Harry regrets teaming up with Zayn to convince Liam to stand up for himself more often.

“I’ll buy,” he agrees. “My wallet’s probably still in my jeans from last night.” 

Liam raises an eyebrow, or at least does the thing with his face that Harry has learned means the same as raising an eyebrow, but he doesn’t argue about going to get Harry’s wallet while Harry continues to sit on the settee like a lump. 

While he’s doing that, Harry pulls the subscription card out of one of the magazines on the table and writes his order on it, thinking that on New Year’s day at least, McDonalds should do all-day breakfast, but suspecting that they don’t. 

“I love you, Liam,” he says when Liam comes back and hands him his wallet. Harry gives him thirty quid and the subscription card order. “You are a prince.” 

“A prince who doesn’t have to do the washing up until _March_.” Liam ruffles Harry’s hair gently, and heads out to get them hangover food.

**

Between the other boys coming home, and Harry’s modeling gigs, and Nick getting back into his shows after the Christmas holidays, they don’t text as much as they had been. Or, at least Harry’s telling himself it’s that and not anything to do with how he’d tried to snog Nick’s face off on New Years. 

It’s not that they don’t text at all, but what might have been fifty texts a day becomes three or four. Or none, with a pick-up two days later. Harry can’t figure out how much of it is Nick not texting back as often, and how much is him second-guessing himself, where before he never even thought about what he was sending Nick. He’s also spending some of the time he would have been texting thinking about whether he wants to kiss Nick again. 

Kind of a lot of the time he could have spent texting. And the time he could have spent reading, and playing video games with the boys. He also watches Niall and Liam and Zayn and Louis, and the other male models he’s working with, and the super-fit barista at the coffee shop who has really nice tattoos and huge brown eyes and soft pink lips. None of them have boobs, or that curve of waist/belly/hips that girls have. And he doesn’t really want to kiss any of them. But the idea doesn’t seem as wei—no, he thinks, not weird. Weird implies that he’d considered and rejected kissing blokes before. He’d mostly never thought about it. For other people, sure—half the male models and at least two thirds of the other men he knows in the industry are queer—but now it doesn’t seem as much like an idea that other people would have and he wouldn’t.

 

Thursday night a few weeks after New Year’s, Harry’s in his room listening to Nick’s show, debating texting him about the song he just played, when Niall comes home from a date and flops down with Harry on his bed. 

“You’re home early,” Harry observes as Niall wiggles and scootches and gets himself settled under Harry’s arm, head resting on Harry’s chest. “No shag?”

Once he’s all comfy and has stolen a slice of Harry’s apple from the plate next to Harry’s far hip, Niall says, “Nah, the film was sold out, so we went to the pub and had a drink. I blew him in the bog.” 

Harry thinks about that, Niall down on his knees in a pub toilet, a dick in his mouth. Harry has no idea who Niall was out with, so in his head, the dick is attached to a bloke who looks a lot like Nick. He wonders if Niall likes it. They’ve all talked about _getting_ head, and Harry’s never met a boy who didn’t like that, but the only girl he’s talked about _giving_ head with is Cara, and they were talking about eating pussy. Harry (like Cara) definitely likes eating pussy. 

What he says, however, is, “I hope he returned the favor.” 

Niall pats Harry’s belly, a snuggly double tap that means _good lad_. “He’d already given me a wank.” He steals a second slice of apple, and Harry realizes he’d missed him eating the first one. 

“Is it—” Harry’s not sure what he wants to ask. “How do you know if you want to give a bloke, like, if you want to suck him off?” 

With his neck craned so he can look Harry in the face, Niall does an awkward shrug. “Same way you know if you want to eat a girl out, I guess. If they’re hot, and nice, and you have a good laugh, and if they seem up for it?”

Nick is definitely nice, and they always have a good laugh, and, like, objectively speaking he’s hot. And, Harry’s pretty sure from the amount of time he’s spent thinking about kissing him again, _sub_ jectively speaking, too. “How do you know if they’re up for it?” 

“Haz, are you okay? Some lad didn’t try to—”

“No,” Harry assures him. “No. I was just thinking.” 

“What were you thinking about?” The hand Niall has resting on his belly takes up a soothing gentle skritch. Harry feels soothed, mostly, until the song Nick’s playing ends and he starts talking again, telling a story about a friend Harry can tell is Aimee. Harry misses him. And he’s pretty sure he wants to know if Nick would be up for Harry giving him a blow job. 

“How did you know you were bi?” Harry asks. 

The skritching stops, and Niall cranes up to look at him again. They stare at each other for what seems like ages, but Nick is still talking when Harry blinks and shifts his gaze and Niall un-contorts his spine and goes back to cuddling, so it can’t have been as long as all that. 

They sit in silence until Nick finishes his link, then, with Paolo Nutini in the background, Niall finally says, “I always liked girls, but also I’d fancied blokes, mostly off the telly, and then, I don’t know. I moved down to London, and a bloke in a pub chatted me up, and we ended up snogging, and then I went to a birthday party for this photographer’s assistant and went home with a boy who had the worst pick-up line ever but was really hot, and then the next person I shagged was a girl and that was really fun, too, so I just sort of figured.” 

It had never occurred to Harry that Niall might have shagged a bloke before he’d shagged a girl. Girls seem so much easier to chat up. But then, Harry’s been out with Niall, and one minute they’re just hanging out, and the next Niall’s sitting on a bloke’s lap taking sips of his drink looking all pleased with himself, so maybe it’s just that Harry’s not been trying. 

“What was the pickup line?” Harry asks. It’s good to know what not to use, as well as what works.

“I don’t remember exactly, but it was about wanting to see if my balls were as pink as my cheeks.” When Harry can’t think of anything to say to that, Niall adds, “I was drunk.” 

“I guess.” Harry needn’t have worried about accidentally using the worst pickup line Niall’s ever heard. He’s pretty sure he’d never think to compare a person’s junk to their face in an effort to get them to come home with him. 

“So, is it Nick?” Niall asks. 

Apparently Niall spent more time in the pub shagging than drinking, which is a shame, because Harry could do with Niall being a bit blurrier for this conversation. “Is what Nick?” Harry asks, trying to sound innocent. 

“The bloke whose dick you want to suck.” 

“I never said—”

“I’m not thick, Haz. Come on. If you were just curious, you’d have asked all these questions a year ago.” 

“I maybe kissed him, is all,” Harry tries. He’s pretty sure Niall knows that’s not all, but he wasn’t planning on having this conversation tonight. He’s not ready. 

Niall tries to look at him again, but Harry tangles fingers in his hair to hold him where he is. “I kissed him and maybe I’ve been thinking about it kind of a lot.” 

With scarily good timing, Nick comes back on air, laughing at something his producer said while the song was playing. Harry loves his laugh so much. 

“Mmm-hmm,” Niall says, and the next thing Harry knows, Niall’s got Harry’s phone and is using it to send a text. To Nick. 

“Hey,” Harry protests, trying to take it back, but Niall clutches it more tightly, curling around it. 

“Nice heartbeat,” he says, continuing to type. 

“At least show me what you’re saying,” Harry demands, trying to get his phone via a combination of tickling and grabbing. Niall is remarkably resistant to both. 

He does eventually hand the phone over, but only after he’s hit send. _Good show tonight,_ it says. _Niall thinks you should play more Irish music. My birthday is next Wednesday and you’re invited out to dinner with the boys. My real party is Friday night, though, and you should definitely come to that. Miss you. xx_

“You signed off with kisses,” Harry complains. When Niall gave the phone back, he moved to sit so he’s facing Harry and can’t be kept from looking him in the eye, but that also means he can’t avoid Harry’s pout.

“You always sign texts with kisses if you haven’t sent one in a while.”

Harry has been so careful not to send Nick kisses since New Year’s Eve. “Not with people I’ve _actually kissed_!” 

“Hmm.” Niall’s lips go all pinchy the way they do when he thinks you’re being stupid. “Well, that’s dumb.” 

“Also, since when am I having two birthday parties?” Harry knew about the dinner with the boys and a few of their other friends, but Friday is news.

“Oh. Oops. Friday was supposed to be a surprise party.” Niall does a sort of jazz hands thing. “Surprise?” 

“You also told him I miss him.” Basically everything in Niall’s text after ‘cool show’ was a disaster. 

“You do miss him. You’ve hardly been texting lately, and you haven’t seen him in almost a month. He’s going to think you wish you didn’t kiss him.” 

“Or maybe he wishes he didn’t kiss me back,” Harry says. Which is the biggest problem, really. It’s scary to think about wanting to kiss a bloke. Possibly on the dick. But it’s terrifying to think Nick’s been wishing Harry’d never kissed him at all. Harry appreciates this is maybe backwards, but he’s come to terms with that.

Harry’s phone buzzes on the bed between them. Niall reaches it first. 

“Mine,” Harry says, but Niall’s already opening the text. 

“He’s got meetings on Wednesday, but he’ll definitely be there Friday,” Niall tells him. He starts typing again. 

“Now what?” Harry demands, not even bothering trying to get his phone back this time. 

“Just telling him where to go Friday night. Don’t look so constipated.” 

“Rude!” Harry gives Niall a shove. “I do not look constipated.” 

In answer, Niall scrunches up his eyes and wrinkles his nose and pouches his lips out, before laughing at his own impression. Not very good _at all_. Harry’s never looked like that in his life. 

“Don’t look at me like that isn’t exactly what your face looks like,” Niall tells him, before diving at Harry and wrestling him down on the bed for more cuddles. Niall knows Harry can never resist cuddles. 

“I hate you,” Harry tells him as he settles Niall’s head against his chest.

They fall asleep on top of the covers, Niall with his jeans still on, and Harry with his phone trapped under his thigh. 

**

 

Harry’s birthday dinner is fun, though everyone keeps buying him drinks, so it’s all very fuzzy the next day. He must look bad when he stumbles into the lounge around 11:30, because Louis, who usually revels in the hangovers of others, only takes the piss a little bit, and makes him cups of tea, and about five plates of toast, and lets Harry lie with his head in Louis’ lap while Louis pets his hair. By mid-afternoon, Harry’s feeling much better, and the five of them go to the cinema and watch the next 18-certificate film starting—now that Harry’s all official and everything—and gorge on popcorn and pick-n-mix and soda, and still stop at the chippie on the way home.

Friday, Harry has to pretend he doesn’t know about his ‘surprise’ party, and go to the job he booked before he knew that was happening. It is, Harry is certain, the worst job he’s ever done. And he’s actually including the time he had to clean the bog in the back room of the bakery after Mags had used it on her way home the night of Charlotte’s hen do. This time at least he’s got Zayn with him. 

When he’d signed on, he’d been looking forward to it. Swimsuits are easy, usually, and he’s been doing sit-ups every night, and had got a special offer at the tanning place, so he’s looking good, and February’s weather doesn’t give him much other chance to show it off where anyone but the lads or whichever girl he’s pulled can see. But this photographer has big ambitions, and it’s Harry and Zayn and the other two models who’re paying for them. 

The one plus is that they’re in a studio with the heat cranked up, and not down Brighton beach or something. But other than that, it’s just as wet, and rocky, and _wet_ as you’d expect the beach to be. Moreso, even, because Harry has the sense not to get in the water at the beach in February. 

“I’m going to punch him if he throws another bucket of water at me,” Zayn mutters under his breath, wiping at his eyes after the latest splash, making his clumped eyelashes bristle fiercely. Harry would kill for Zayn’s eyelashes. 

“You won’t,” Harry whispers back. Zayn won’t. He won’t even bat at him like a slightly cross kitten the way he does when Louis or Niall pushes him too far. But oh, will he glower. 

“Perfect!” The photographer shouts. “Magnifique!” 

He’s from Bristol, and should leave off the French. 

Harry, who’s lounging next to Zayn on a pile of what looks more like rubble from a building site than rocks you’d find at the beach, glares in the camera’s general direction. It’s not as hard to do as it was when he first got here six hours ago. Harry’s not generally one to glare. But he’s hungry and tired, and sore, and tonight’s his birthday party, and he’s fully recovered from Wednesday night, and he would like to go and get very drunk again please. 

And maybe see if he can get Nick to kiss him. 

At long last the shoot is over, and they’re given towels that the kind assistant warmed on the radiators, and allowed to go home. It’s clear in the cab that Zayn’s been tasked with convincing Harry to go out that night without telling him why, and Harry can’t resist making him work for it a little, telling him all he wants is a hot shower and a nap. It backfires slightly, when Zayn decides all he wants is a hot shower and a nap, too, but he rallies with cuddles, and they agree that shower, then nap, then clubbing should be the plan. 

 

Louis and Liam pretend they can’t come because they’ve got other things to do, so it’s just Zayn, Niall, and Harry pre-gaming with vodka and diet coke while they wait for the cab. Harry’s got on the new boots he bought with his birthday money—not quite as good as the boots he wore in Henry Holland’s show, but pretty great—with skinny black jeans and a t-shirt with a fox on it that could be Burberry if you squinted, but came from a stall under the arches in Camden. Zayn’s got on a red henley with black jeans, and Niall’s wearing his Derby shirt over blue jeans that Zayn artfully ripped for him with a razor blade. If Harry says so himself, they’re all looking pretty good. 

When they get there, Harry doesn’t have to work as hard as he expected to look surprised. The place is _packed_ with people he knows: most of SoHo’s stable, half the other models Harry’s worked with since he started, and not a few of the photographer’s assistants, make-up artists, dressers, and wardrobe assistants, too. Niall—Harry’s betting it’s Niall—has been busy with the invites. Stood at the edge of the crowd gathered to shout “Surprise!” at him, are Pixie Geldof and Kelly Osborne, Nick behind them looking ridiculously tall. And fit. God he looks fit. Any doubts Harry was harbouring about wanting to kiss him when he’s right there and not just a fantasy disappear. 

Harry Styles, ladies’ man, definitely fancies a bloke. It’s not as scary as he’d thought it might be.

With the place as crowded as it is, it’s not hard for Harry to get away with mostly just smiling and waving at people as he makes his way over to Nick. “You came!” he says, not even bothering to shoot for casual. He’s too happy to see him. 

“Course I did!” Nick leans in and gives him a hug Harry could swear lingers just a little longer than usual. “Sorry about Wednesday.” 

“It’s fine.” It is fine. He’s here now and that’s perfect. 

When Nick lets Harry go and steps back to return them to normal personal space distance, Harry tries to keep his gaze on Nick’s eyes, but it drops to his mouth like a magnet pulled it. And dragging it back up again doesn’t help, because he catches Nick catching him do it. Pixie, bless her, saves him, wishing him happy birthday and introducing him to Kelly even though they’d met New Year’s Eve. 

“I’ll get drinks,” Nick says, making his escape. 

 

By the time Nick gets back, Harry’s caught up in another conversation, and Nick’s too fast handing him his drink and murmuring, “Find me in a bit,” in his ear before making off again. 

When Harry does find him after making a quick round of some of his guests, Nick’s holding court at a booth in a corner, Pixie and Kelly and Cara and her friend Eloise pressed in with him, a pile of glasses and bottles making the booth seem even more crowded than it is. “Time to dance, girls,” Cara announces when she sees Harry approaching. All four women get up to follow without protest. It’s not that Harry’s not grateful, but it also makes him wonder what they’ve been talking about. 

“Happy birthday, young Harold,” Nick says when Harry slides in beside him. He raises the nearest pint to clink against the mostly empty vodka and Red Bull glass Harry’s still holding. “How does it feel to be eighteen?” 

It feels mostly the same as being seventeen, but Harry says, “Good,” anyway, because he’s come to the conclusion in the last two days that mostly it’s not much different because he’s been treated like he was eighteen since he moved to London anyway. It’s not like he can suddenly go out with his mates where he couldn’t before. 

“You can vote, now,” Nick says, eyes sparkling at him over the rim of his pint glass. “That must be exciting.” 

“Aah, yes. Voting. Definitely that. And I can finally watch porn on the internet.” Why did he say that? Why? He did not mean to say that. 

But it makes Nick laugh. “And that. I’m sure you weren’t doing that before.” 

Harry lays a condensation-cool palm against his overheated cheeks. “Definitely not,” he says. “Never once clicked that _yes I am over 18_ box until day before yesterday.” 

“Good,” Nick says, looking very earnest, but also like he’s about to start laughing again. “Would never do to corrupt you before you’re ready.” 

“I’m ready,” Harry says. Yet again, the words out before he can consider if they’re a good idea.

Nick reaches for him, and hope and fear and excitement bubble up in Harry’s chest, but Nick’s only encouraging him out of the booth. “Ready to dance, I hope. No good the birthday boy spending the night stuck in a corner.” 

Harry’s still trying to figure out exactly what happened when he hits the dance floor, empty handed and being steered with one large palm on his shoulder, the other on his ribs through the crowd to where Cara, Eloise, and Niall are waving their arms in the air to Madonna. 

Nick stays close, but he doesn’t get up in Harry’s space or start grinding, or even put his hands on Harry’s hips. Niall is giving Harry looks Harry thinks might mean _Did you talk? Are you going to kiss him again? Do you still fancy him?_ but Harry’s not sure the eyebrow wiggles he sends back properly convey, _Not really. God, I hope so. Hell, yes_ , and now is definitely not the time for a heart to heart. 

A few songs later, Harry catches Niall eyebrow talking at Cara. She’s either better at reading it than Harry is, or has ideas of her own, because when Daft Punk becomes Rihanna, she reaches around Harry to drag Nick forward flush against Harry’s back, draping Nick’s arms over both their shoulders, wrapping her arms around Nick’s waist so he can’t get away. “Hi!” Harry says, a bit surprised, but Cara just winks at him. 

“Menace,” Nick says, presumably to Cara, his cheek brushing Harry’s ear. He’s not as on beat as Cara is, and Harry’s being jostled in a way that should probably not be as hot as it is. 

“Hopeless,” Cara retorts, shifting her grip so one hand’s on Nick’s waist, one on Harry’s, trying to get them to move to her rhythm. She doesn’t have much success. 

“Completely hopeless,” Eloise agrees loudly, plastering herself to Cara’s back. “We should leave them to it.” Deftly, she peels Cara away and turns Harry in Nick’s arms, leaving them more slow dancing than doing anything that would make Rihanna proud. Harry’s pretty okay with that. 

“Hi,” he says again, up against Nick’s ear this time. 

“Hi,” Nick says back. Harry can feel his shoulders and hips working at different speeds, neither having anything to do with the music or whatever Nick’s doing with his own hips, and he can feel Niall, and probably other people, watching them, but he just holds on. 

“I think I’m better at this when I’ve had more to drink,” Harry says. 

“Me too,” Nick agrees. “We weren’t doing too bad last time.” 

“No.” Harry finds himself looking at Nick’s mouth again. “Last time was good.” 

Rocking back and forth, they listen to Rihanna tell them to put their glasses up and drink to that, then Nick says, “It’s pretty crowded in here.” 

Harry nods. He’s still looking at Nick’s mouth, though he does manage to catch his eye for a second. 

“Pretty public,” Nick observes.

Harry nods again. “Still think you should kiss me,” he says after a moment of blanking out completely when the tip of Nick’s tongue peeks out at the corner of his mouth. 

At Harry’s words, Nick’s tongue sweeps his entire bottom lip, and Harry can’t wait anymore. Hands tight around Nick’s ribs to steady himself, Harry goes up on tiptoe and gives Nick the kiss he’d been the one to ask for. 

There are no fireworks, not even any sparks. Nick’s still dancing, so Harry’s aim goes awry and his lips slide over to Nick’s cheek, and Harry thinks maybe he’s built all this up out of nothing after all. 

But then Nick stops moving, drops an arm to anchor around Harry’s back, and cups his head with his other hand, and that works _much_ better. Warmth settles low in Harry’s belly, liquid and wanting, like when he finally touches his dick after teasing himself with really hot porn. It’s not fireworks, but he’s never actually felt fireworks, so who even knows if they exist? He _knows_ this feeling, and it’s _good_.

This time, no one shoots confetti at their heads, and though Harry is distantly aware they’re causing blockage on the dance floor, they don’t stop. Not until Rihanna’s made way for someone Harry can’t be bothered to identify, and that song’s made way for Beyonce, and someone calls, “Get a room!” By which point Harry is completely on board with that plan, and wishes this were someone else’s party so he could do just that.

Instead, he and Nick break apart, though Harry keeps a tight grip on Nick’s left hand, and they head over to the bar. 

“So,” Nick says when they get there. 

“So,” Harry agrees. They’re both smiling stupidly at each other. Harry’s hoping that’s a good sign. 

“What’re you drinking?” the bartender interrupts their staring contest. 

“Pint of lager, and…” Nick gestures at Harry. 

“Vodka Red Bull,” Harry says. He should probably not mix his drinks too much. Yesterday morning was miserable. And wow. Like a million years ago. Walking into this party feels like a million years ago, too. Harry’s brain is having trouble going back to before Nick kissed him.

Nick kissed him. And is still holding his hand, not that Harry’s giving him a lot of choice. Which. Maybe he needs his hand for his drink. And it’s getting a little sweaty. Watching Nick watch the bartender, Harry lifts their hands and kisses Nick’s knuckles, little finger to first, then eases their fingers apart. Nick’s been watching him from the time he got to the kiss on his middle finger, bemused look on his face. 

“You not a hand holder?” he asks.

He sounds curious, and maybe like he’s trying to sound teasing. “Wasn’t sure if _you_ are,” Harry answers truthfully. “Some people say I’m too—” Harry shrugs.

“You’re definitely too something,” Nick says, but he’s smiling like he’s into it. 

Harry hopes he’s into it. 

Their drinks come then, and Nick hands over a tenner and collects both glasses, handing Harry’s over so he can take his change. “Lead the way,” he says. 

Harry leads them back toward the table they’d abandoned earlier, but it’s full up with people Harry doesn’t know, so he keeps going, back to a red-carpeted corridor that leads to the loos and a fire exit. It’s quieter than the club itself, and wide enough they can lean on the wall and not be in the way of people wanting to pass. 

“Oh?” Nick says when Harry settles his arse against the carpeted wall half-way between the doorway back to the club and the ladies’. 

“I thought we could talk,” Harry answers. Nick settles his hip and shoulder against the wall next to him so he’s facing Harry, shrugging like, _so, talk_. Which seems fair. “You kissed me,” Harry starts.

That gets a look of surprise, and Nick taking a pull on his beer. “Or you kissed me,” he says. He sounds doubtful, but Harry’s not sure if he’s doubting his memory, or what Harry’s saying.

Harry waits for a bloke to pass and then corrects himself. “No. I mean, yeah. I kissed you. But you kissed me back, like— like you liked it?” Harry doesn’t mean to make it a question, but he’s suddenly feeling less confident about where this is going. 

“I did,” Nick says, but he still sounds more doubtful than Harry would like. “You’re— but I figured you were celebrating. Happy New Years, Happy Birthday—”

“So you were just…”

“When a fit bloke kisses you, you kiss him back. It doesn’t have to mean anything if he’s not into you.” Nick takes another long pull on his beer. Harry’s barely touched his drink. He wishes he’d got the vodka without the cloying taste of Red Bull. A cluster of girls squeeze around them, headed for the loos.

“So you’re not into me,” Harry says when the door’s shut behind them. Better to know now, really. Though he could have saved himself a month of trying to figure out if he’s a little bit gay if he’d known last time. 

“I don’t— you’re—” Nick gestures at Harry like this will clarify what he is. It doesn’t. “We totally click. Clearly you’re fit. But you’re straight. And I— That way madness lies.” 

Harry goes ahead and gulps at his drink despite the sweet taste he no longer wants. “I think about sucking your dick a lot for someone who’s supposed to be straight,” he says. 

Nick looks at him. And does that thing where his tongue traces along his lower lip. Harry’s mad at him for assuming things all the time, but he really wants to put his tongue where Nick’s just was. 

“You do?” Nick asks. 

“I even asked Niall for tips. He sent me a list of links to his favourite porn.” 

Nick’s mouth twitches a little. “Did you watch it?” 

Looking to see no one’s coming, and taking another, smaller sip of his drink, Harry nods. “I don’t think I’ll be that good at it, though. At least not at first.” 

“Not at first,” Nick repeats slowly. “You think you’re going to want to practice?” 

“Not if you don’t fancy me.” Harry gives Nick a small, hopeful smile. 

“I never said that,” Nick points out. 

“I never said I was straight.” Harry’s pretty sure this is true. At least when it comes to things he’s said to Nick. Things he’s said to other people don’t count right now. 

“You never said you weren’t, either, and I can tell you which it’s safer to assume.” Nick’s still smiling, but his eyes are serious.

And, huh. Harry hadn’t really thought of it that way. He’s only talked to Niall about his feelings, and Niall obviously isn’t going to be grossed out or angry if Harry’s bi. Or queer, or whatever he is. Harry still hasn’t found a word that feels right. But Nick’s had to hear a lot more people’s opinions. Probably not all of them were good. “Has anyone ever—” Harry asks.

Nick’s eyebrows frown for just a moment, and he says, “I’ve been pretty lucky. But let’s not— How about we talk about blow jobs some more.” 

Just as he says it, the bloke who’d passed earlier comes back in the opposite direction. He doesn’t even look at them, though, so Harry doubts he heard. 

“Maybe we should go home and talk about it?” Harry says. He doesn’t really mean _talk_ , and he hopes Nick gets that.

Nick smiles like he does. But he says, “You can’t leave your own party this early. How about you mingle, I’ll find Pixie and Kelly, make sure they’re not causing any trouble, and tomorrow you can come over, maybe spend the night if you want?” 

Harry doesn’t want to wait until tomorrow. He doesn’t want to wait at all. But Nick is right: it would be rude to leave when he’s hardly talked to any of the people Niall went to the trouble of inviting. He hasn’t even talked to his flatmates, really. “I want,” Harry says. 

Nick chuckles. Harry maybe did say it a little intensely. “Okay, then. I’ll tell Aimee to have a sleepover one of her other friends’ places, just in case you don’t change your mind.

Harry’s not going to change his mind, but he supposes it’s nice of Nick to give him the out anyway.

“Let’s get you back to your friends.” Nick looks like he’s planning on escorting Harry like a naughty schoolboy, and without giving him another kiss. Harry’s not having it. He evades Nick’s reaching hand, ducking under his arm to push him up against the wall, press right up against him. 

“Kiss first,” he says. 

Nick sighs like he’s put out, but Harry can feel his smile as he presses their lips together. 

 

Once they’re back in the club proper, Nick squeezes Harry’s hand and shoves him in the direction of Louis, who is riding on Liam’s back, and seems to be having a … cocktail umbrella jousting match? with Craig and Ellen who work in Pauline’s office. By the time Harry’s figured out what his friends are jousting with, Nick’s melted into the crowd. 

The rest of the night turns out to be fun. Maybe not _more_ fun than rolling around in Nick’s bed naked, but tomorrow isn’t _that_ far away, and Harry’s boys do know how to throw a party. 

The hangover isn’t even bad, since he succeeds in sticking to vodka, and drinks water before he goes to sleep instead of waiting until he wakes up. Louis and Zayn are not so lucky, but Liam and Niall are awake enough to be dragged to the cafe around the corner for a fry up by the time Harry gets so hungry he’s contemplating eating his own arm. They aren’t very chatty, but no one turns green at the sight of over easy eggs, which makes it better than last time they came here.

 

Nick texts around two to ask if Harry still wants to come over. 

_Now?_ Harry responds. _I can come now if you want._

_lol how about 5? Aimee’s going out to dinner. We could get a takeaway._

_should I bring anything?_

There’s no answer to that for long enough that Harry wonders if maybe Nick is checking his kitchen and making a shopping list, and then if maybe he got a phone call from his mum, or maybe his battery ran out. Finally Nick replies, _you could bring those orange and purple pants if you want._ Harry feels like he won something as he goes to make sure the pants are clean. 

Niall, who is on his bed noodling around on his guitar, starts singing, “There’s something ‘bout Harry’s smile,” to the tune of “Jessie’s Girl” when Harry walks in. 

“What’s Harry smiling about?” Louis has his hands either side of the door jam and is leaning into the room, looking dangerously bored. Harry tries to remember if he already knows Harry stole his 2[x]ist pants. 

“I don’t know,” Niall says, doing a flourishy strum before setting his guitar aside. “What’s Harry smiling about?” 

“Nothing,” Harry says, feeling his cheeks ache as he smiles even wider. 

“Nothing to do with trying to eat Nick Grimshaw’s face off on the dance floor last night, then?” Niall says. 

“Who did?” Louis demands, coming all the way into the room and plonking himself practically on Niall’s feet.

“Harry,” Niall tells him, using him as a footrest, as he’s there and all. “How did you miss this? They were right in the middle of the dance floor.” 

“We weren’t _right_ in the middle,” Harry argues. They were definitely more to one side than the other. 

“Well, I wasn’t dancing, was I?” Louis says. “I can’t be expected to keep track of _everything_. That’s why I have minions to spy for me.”

Harry sees the shadow of someone moving down the hallway, and Louis calls out, “Liam! Oy, Liam. Did you know about this?” 

Liam pokes his head into the room, glancing from Louis to Niall to Harry in confusion. “Know about what?” 

“Know that young Harold here’s been snogging blokes and not telling us?” 

“Who else did you snog?” Liam asks, looking expectantly in Harry’s direction. 

“Wait, there was more than one?” Louis demands. 

Liam looks confused. “You said blokes, so I assumed.” 

“There was only one!” Harry insists. “Nick is not _blokes_. He’s Nick.” 

“Oh,” Liam says. “Okay, then.” 

Louis points an accusatory finger Liam’s way. “But you knew about Grimshaw?”

“Everyone knew about that,” Liam says. “They were right in the middle of the dance floor.” 

Niall, the bastard, smirks when Harry tries to open his mouth and refute that again. Not that he has a chance over the sound of Louis bellowing Zayn’s name through the wall Niall and Harry share with Zayn and Liam. 

“Feck off,” comes weakly back. Zayn’s not one who likes his sleep disturbed. 

Upstairs bangs on the floor in annoyance. 

“Go get Zayn,” Louis says. Harry’s not sure if he’s talking to him or Liam. “House meeting.” 

“We don’t need a house meeting because I kissed someone,” Harry says.

“Good point,” Niall adds. “If we had a house meeting every time Harry kissed someone, we’d be having them all the bloody time.” 

“Not _all_ the time,” Harry says, frowning. He has completely lost control of this conversation. All he wanted was a change of pants.

Liam, who Harry hadn’t even noticed left, comes back with an extremely disgruntled Zayn in tow. Zayn stops in the doorway, leans his head against it, and closes his eyes. 

“Did you know about this, Malik?” Louis asks. 

Zayn cracks an eye. “They were snogging on the dance floor. For like three songs. You were literally standing next to me while it happened. How do you _not_ know about it?” 

“Why didn’t anyone _tell_ me?” Louis demands, looking around at all of them. 

“Standing next to me,” Zayn repeats. “You said, ‘Is that Harry snogging Nick Grimshaw? Since when is he into blokes?’ and I said, ‘Yes,’ and ‘Since now, I guess,’ and then you said it was my turn to buy a round.” 

“Ha!” Niall says. Louis smacks his shin, and Niall kicks him playfully in retaliation. 

“Meeting adjourned?” Zayn asks, and then he’s gone, back, presumably, to bed. 

“Is it a problem if I want to kiss a bloke?” Harry asks. He thought— None of them seem to have a problem with Niall, so it hadn’t occurred to him any of his flatmates might be assholes about it. 

“No!” Liam says. He looks aggrieved that Harry would even think such a thing.

“The _problem_ ,” Louis says, holding Niall’s feet off with a tight grip round his ankles, “is when _everyone but me_ knows about it.” 

“Looks like we all found out at the same time,” Liam says. “Only, _you_ forgot.” 

Harry’s extremely grateful that Niall doesn’t say anything about having known for almost a week. Next time he goes to the grocery, Harry should get him some of that beer he likes.

“It was those Long Island Iced Teas,” Louis grumbles. 

“Speaking of which,” Liam says, moving toward the door. “Let’s put the kettle on, yeah?” 

“Oooh,” Louis exclaims. “Tea.” With a last flick to Niall’s socked foot, Louis stands up and follows Liam. 

“Make one for me?” Niall asks.

Louis’ “Yeah, yeah,” drifts in from down the hall. 

When they’re gone, Harry risks opening his pants drawer to look for the orange briefs. They aren’t hard to find amongst the black and white and grey, but after all that, he hesitates to pull them out while Niall is watching him. 

“Sorry,” Niall says. “I figured they all knew.” 

“Yeah.” Harry figured, too. Or, well, hadn’t really thought about them not knowing. It’s been so much on his mind. “Me too. It’s not your fault.”

“So is that why you were smiling though? Are you like, going out now?” 

Harry thinks that’s an excellent question. He hasn’t really properly dated anyone since Clare when he was in school. Like Nick, Clare had been his friend first. Maybe that’s the secret. “I don’t know. But I’m going over there tonight, so.” 

“Booty call, booty call,” Niall singsongs. It has a little dance that goes with it. Booty shaking when you’re sitting on a bed doesn’t work all that well, though, and Harry laughs at him. 

“Date,” he corrects. “We planned it last night.”

“Booty date, booty date,” Niall sings instead. Harry balls up a pair of boring white pants and throws them at his head. 

“Heeyyy,” Niall complains, mock pouting. Harry’s pretty sure it’s an impression of him. “You should wear those orange ones you stole from Louis though. Bet he’ll like ’em.” 

Laughing, Harry pulls them out. “These?” Niall nods and Harry starts taking his jeans off so he can change. “He definitely likes them. Asked for them, even.” Harry can feel himself blushing talking about what underwear a boy wants him to wear for their date. Their date which, Harry very much hopes, will end sometime after the point where that boy takes said underwear off him. But it’s nice, too, having someone. 

“You told him about them?” 

Harry pushes his jeans and boxers down and steps out of them into the briefs, pulling them up, and adjusting the legs in the mirror. “He’s already seen me in them. That time I stayed over back in December.”

Niall’s eyes go wide. “I thought New Year’s—”

“Just _saw_ me,” Harry interrupts. “We didn’t— You know how I sometimes wake up with no clothes on.” 

That gets a vigorous nod. “I do and all.” 

Harry can see in the mirror that Niall is checking out his arse, so he flexes it and gives it a little smack. “These’ll do?” 

“If you don’t pull in those, mate, I don’t know what to tell you.” 

“I’m hoping to pull _out_ of them, actually,” Harry says, giving his arse one last squeeze before tugging his jeans back on. 

“Pretty sure it’s a sure thing.” 

“I’m drinking this tea if you don’t get your arse out here, Horan,” Louis calls from the lounge. 

“When are you going?” Niall asks. 

Harry checks his phone. It’s 4:25. “Now? By the time I get a taxi…” 

Niall gives him a massive hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Have fun. I won’t expect you home tonight, and if you are, you can always climb in and give us a cuddle.” 

Harry has no idea what he did to deserve such a good friend, but he gives Niall an even tighter hug back before grabbing his wallet off his bedside table and shoving it in his pocket with his phone. “Don’t wait up,” he says with a smile.

 

Harry knocks on Nick’s door at 4:55, hoping it’s okay that he’s a bit early. 

When Nick opens it, he looks both frazzled and pleased. He’s wearing faded blue jeans with a ripped out knee, and a white and blue shirt with the top few buttons undone to show off his necklaces and the freckles and hair on his chest. His feet are bare despite the fact that it’s only three degrees outside. His hair is half swept back in waves and half sticking up, like he’d styled it and then done the thing he does with it. He’d probably frown if he looked in a mirror, but Harry likes it. It’s cute, and it makes him think about twisting his own fingers up in it, and how he could use it to pull Nick into kissing distance. Harry would really like to pull him into kissing distance. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“Hi,” Nick says back. His hand goes and makes the standy-uppy bit of his hair even more wild before he takes a step back to let Harry in. 

“Hi,” Harry says again once the door is closed. “You look hot.” He likes how the words feel in his mouth, and the _stop it. don’t stop_ look that flits across Nick’s face when he says them. 

“Because I’ve got the heating on,” Nick replies. “Let me take your coat.” 

Harry undoes the buttons and shrugs it off, but says, “Because you’re fit, and that’s a good shirt, and your hair is really making me want to kiss you.” 

“Aimee warned me you’d flirt circles around me if I gave you half a chance.” 

“She’s got a place to stay tonight?” Harry feels a bit bad about kicking her out of her borrowed bed, but he really hopes he has done and she won’t be home in two hours or something to chaperone. 

“She does.” Nick heads into the lounge where the heating is indeed fully functional, and an array of takeaway menus await them on the coffee table. “All night and into tomorrow. In case you want breakfast.” 

Harry’s heard Nick’s stories about feigning sleep in the hopes that the boy he’d brought home would get bored and leave, so it’s heartening that Nick thinks he’d want Harry to stay. “Should I have brought eggs?” he asks. “Or are we going to have sprouts?” 

Nick sticks his tongue out. It’s a retort Nick’s used more than once in the past, and it’s always just made Harry laugh, but now he’s had that tongue in his mouth, it also makes his dick take an interest. “Put that away unless you’re going to use it,” Harry says, even though Nick has put it away already. Still, Harry’s words make Nick take a step closer, half another one, until he’s close enough that Harry can reach up and take hold of that wild shock of hair, give it a tug. 

“I knew you were trouble,” Nick says with a smile, then his arms are around Harry’s back and he’s pulling him close, and they’re kissing. 

It’s nice to not have an audience, not worry that someone is going to try to stop them just when it feels they’ve got going. 

So, of course, Nick stops them. 

“Sofa,” he says, and he pulls Harry with him the two steps closer they need so Nick can lie back and tug Harry half onto his lap. “Okay?” 

“Great,” Harry says. “I thought you were stopping. Don’t do that.”

Nick huffs a small laugh. “Just getting more comfortable.”

Harry runs his palms up Nick’s ribs, traces the V of his shirt collar. “Comfortable is good.” 

“C’mere, then.” 

Harry starts to go, but Nick’s chest hair is still just _there_ , crinkly soft under his fingers, and Harry’s done a lot of kissing, but chest hair is new. He’s not got any of his own, if you don’t count the happy trail growing in above his dick, and Nick’s the first man he’s really had permission to touch. “Can I?” he asks, fingers going to the button sitting closed under Nick’s tangle of necklaces. 

“No boobs under there,” Nick says. It sounds like a mock warning, but his fingers come up to join Harry’s on the button, causing him to stop trying to poke it through the hole. 

“Don’t want boobs. Want this.” Harry skritches lightly at the V of skin available to him, gently pinches the hairs between his forefinger and thumb. “You didn’t think you were just going to tease me with it all night, did you?” 

With that wry laugh again, Nick lets his hands drop to his sides. “Did think maybe we’d wait until after dinner. But I had a late lunch; food can wait.” 

“I didn’t have lunch,” Harry says, undoing the first and then the second button. “But food can definitely wait.” Two more buttons and Nick’s shirt falls open completely. Harry’s aware of Nick watching him look, but Nick’s mouth is soft and fond, and his hands are still loose at his sides, so he figures that means he’s okay. Still, “I like it,” Harry says, wanting to make sure Nick isn’t worried he thinks it’s weird or something. “Want to touch.” 

Nick rolls his eyes, shifting against the cushions, and smiles his pleased-despite-himself smile. “Go for it,” he says when Harry hesitates. 

“What do you like?” He doesn’t want to squeeze if Nick likes gentle touches, or be too tickly if he likes pinching or something. Girls, Harry’s learned, can be quite picky about what you do to their boobs, and he, for example, much prefers being scratched or bitten to being rubbed or licked. He wants Nick to enjoy himself. 

“No tickling; no being mean to my nips. Otherwise, I’m yours.” 

_Yours_. Harry likes the sound of that. 

Hands flat, he strokes up from Nick’s belly, where there’s almost no hair at all, glides firm over his ribs, then leans in to kiss right in the center of his chest where the hair is the thickest. The metal of his chains is warm against Harry’s lips, and he pokes his tongue out to lick them, lick Nick’s skin and hair. The salty metallic taste and all the different textures are heady, and he holds on tighter to Nick’s ribs, trying to keep his balance.

“You okay there?” Nick says, voice soft, resting a gentle hand in Harry’s hair. And fuck. _Fuck_ , Harry wants Nick to teach him how to suck his dick. 

“Teach me how to suck you,” Harry says, lifting his head just enough to look Nick in the eye, his chin still resting on Nick’s sternum, Nick’s hand still in his hair. 

Nick stares. Says, “Fuck,” soft and low and breathless. “Give a guy some warning?” 

Warning. Harry can do warning. “I’m about to ask if I can suck your dick,” he tells him. He kisses Nick’s chest again: the center, the dark rose of his right nipple, the soft skin between the wings of his rib cage. “Please let me suck your dick. Tell me how.” 

Nick’s hand twitches on the back of Harry’s head. “Aren’t I supposed to be the one sucking you?” 

That also sounds like an excellent idea, but Harry wants this now. He takes the hand still down by Nick’s side and sucks two fingers into his mouth. Usually it’s his own fingers he’d be sucking in this situation, if a girl’s not wet enough and wants to be fucked while he’s eating her out, but he’s seen it happen in porn just because, and a few girls have done it to him, and it was pretty hot. If the renewed grip on his head and the way Nick’s breathing are any indication, Nick thinks it’s pretty hot, too. 

“Christ, Harry,” Nick breathes. 

Letting Nick’s fingers go, Harry asks, “How do you want me?” With them on the sofa, Harry thinks it would probably be easier to get on the floor between Nick’s spread knees, but it’s Nick’s sofa, and Nick’s the one who’s done this before, and besides, Harry likes being told what to do. At least in certain circumstances. 

“You’re serious?” 

In answer, Harry starts undoing the flies of Nick’s jeans. 

“He’s serious,” Nick mutters. Then, “Whoa, that’s—” when Harry struggles with the penultimate button and nearly punches Nick in the balls. “How about I do that?” 

Harry’s happy to sit back and watch while Nick undoes the last buttons and pushes his jeans a few inches down his hips. His cock is a soft line under navy and white striped boxer briefs, about half hard by Harry’s reckoning. He wants to see it, but he also likes the idea of waiting for Nick to decide to show it to him. 

“We can start with handjobs, you know,” Nick says, watching Harry eye his junk. “If you want.” 

“Do you like handjobs better?” Harry’s pretty sure he knows what the answer is going to be, but he wants to know if Nick will lie to say what he thinks Harry wants to hear. 

Apparently Nick knows it, because he gives Harry a pointed look. “Just if you _want_.” He’s cute, and Harry needs to kiss him. Which leads to lying on top of him, feeling his dick under Harry’s belly. Harry does want to give him a hand job. He wants to see Nick jerk himself off while he watches Harry do the same. He wants Nick to touch him all over and get Harry off whatever way’s his favorite. But mostly, he wants to feel Nick’s hand in his hair while Nick talks him through sucking him off. Somehow Harry had neglected Nick’s hands in his cocksucking fantasies. He has no idea how. 

Nick slides those hands under Harry’s shirt, spreading them over his back, and Harry finds himself grinding desperately against Nick’s thigh, wishing his jeans were off, but not wishing it enough to even consider doing anything about it. He’s got one hand exploring Nick’s chest and the other twisted in his hair like he’s wanted since he got here, and if this isn’t kissing fireworks, Harry doesn’t know what fireworks would be. 

Then Nick shifts, and oh. _Oh_ , they would definitely be _that_. Kissing while Nick’s hands slide over his arse, between his legs, rubbing the seam of his jeans, farther, up against his nuts, rocking him just right, pulling him close. Harry could definitely come with not much more of this. But he doesn’t really want to come in his jeans. And he wants _Nick_ to feel this good. He wants to be the one who makes him feel it. Then Nick can get Harry’s clothes off and do things with his hands. 

“Suck you,” Harry reiterates breathlessly against Nick’s chin. And, with his dick sulkily protesting that he should stay just where he is, Harry backs off Nick’s lap and onto the floor. 

“Or that,” Nick says. 

While Nick’s getting his feet situated either side of Harry’s knees, Harry undoes his jeans, gives himself a bit more breathing room. When Nick spies the pants peeping out from the V, he grins. “You wore them.” 

“You asked,” Harry says. 

“And you just do anything anyone asks?” 

Harry palms his dick. “Depends on who’s asking.” 

“Circles around me,” Nick mutters, shaking his head, giving Harry a look that utterly belies his disapproval. 

“Ask me to suck you,” Harry says. 

“You’re a minx.” Nick spreads his knees wider, scoots his hips closer to the edge of the cushions, and pushes his pants down under his balls. “Suck me.” His voice is rough, nothing like on the radio. Harry did that. He has to clutch his dick for a second, take a breath. 

“Yeah.” Harry takes another deep breath, puts his hands on Nick’s thighs. “I like when you hold my hair,” he says. “And I mean it. Tell me what to do.” 

“You’re awfully bossy for someone asking to be told what to do,” Nick points out. So Harry grabs Nick’s right hand, puts it in Harry’s hair, and takes hold of Nick’s dick. It wipes the smirk off his face and makes his abs jump pleasingly. They jump again when Harry gives it a stroke. “Fine, fine.” Nick gives Harry’s hair a gentle pull. “Be bossy.” 

“Tell me,” Harry says again, and leans in and gives the tip of Nick’s cock a kiss.

Nick doesn’t say anything while Harry kisses again, slower this time, mouth open just enough so he can feel Nick’s slit against his tongue, and only hisses a bit when Harry licks there. But then when Harry stops, he says, “Like that. Licking is good,” and he puts his other hand on Harry’s shoulder. 

Exploring, Harry takes Nick at his word, licking around the tip, up the underside of the shaft, switching up pointed tongue and wider strokes. Nick smells clean, like washing powder and his body wash, as though he showered and changed just before Harry got here. For a second, Harry wonders if Niall would say that was more date night or booty call, but then Nick says, “You can also put it in your mouth, you know,” dry, but also a little desperate, and Harry goes back to what he’s doing. 

Nick isn’t wet the way a girl usually is, so Harry gets his mouth wet instead, then looks at Nick watching him as he opens up, sticks his tongue out, and slides the head along it, past his teeth. 

“Yeah.” Nick’s grip on his hair goes tight, but he doesn’t push. “Yeah, like— fuck.” Harry closes his lips but keeps his jaw wide as he can, pretty sure now is not the time to see if Nick likes a bit of teeth. His instinct is to use his tongue, but also to let Nick deeper, and for now, both doesn’t seem to be an option. 

Not that Nick seems to mind. “That’s good,” he says. “Use your hand a little.” Harry gets his hand moving, goes down a bit more with his mouth, lets his fingers bump his lips. It’s easier to breathe, at least with what he’s doing now, than it is going down on a girl, but it’s harder to move. He’s more scared of biting, and his mouth is full in a different way. 

“Little more hand,” Nick says, the fingers on Harry’s shoulder coming up to touch Harry’s knuckles, guide him. “And you can come off, lick a little, then go back to sucking.” 

Sucking. Right. Harry had been mostly skipping that, just holding Nick’s cock in the heat of his mouth. He tries it now, drawing in his cheeks, pulling with his tongue. That actually makes it easier, feels more like he’s in control. It also makes Nick jerk, makes him grunt, so Harry takes a breath and does it some more. He can lick in a minute. 

That goes well until he gets a bit cocky—no laughing at puns with a dick in your mouth—and tries to push Nick’s cock too far, then tries harder in an effort to suppress his gag reflex, which makes for a super sexy coughing fit. Awesome.

“Advanced class, Styles,” Nick says. “Save something for the next lesson.” 

“Porn makes it look so easy,” Harry grumbles. 

“Maybe think more about the blow jobs you’ve _gotten_ than the ones you’ve watched,” Nick advises, rubbing the top of Harry’s back. “They’re probably a bit more realistic.” 

“I’m used to being good at this sort of thing,” Harry says. 

“How good were you the first time you did that?” 

Nick had a point. He’d been so bad she didn’t even want him to try to make her come with his fingers after. 

“Whatever,” Harry says. “You don’t know everything.” 

“Course I do.” Nick swipes a thumb along Harry’s cheekbone. “We can definitely go back to the handjobs plan if you want.”

Harry tries not to bristle that Nick thinks he’d give up so easily. “Or we can _practice_ ,” he says. 

With a squeeze to the back of Harry’s neck, Nick agrees mildly, “Or we could practice.” 

Determined scowl on his face—Harry can feel the way it’s crinkling up his eyebrows—Harry goes back to the shallow sucking and working Nick in his fist. At first it feels like practice, but then he finds a rhythm, and with every breath, the smell of sex and Nick gets stronger, and it’s not exactly _easy_ , but Harry’s in a zone, where the weight of Nick’s hand on the back of his head is more present than the ache in his knees, the slide of Nick’s cock on his tongue overwhelms the ache in his jaw. 

He can feel Nick’s thighs twitching under his palms, feel them get tighter as his breathing speeds up, as Harry speeds his hand up too. He’s gonna come, and Harry’s not sure what he wants, if he should let Nick come in his mouth, see if he likes it, or if that’s something to try for next time, but Nick pulls him off, grabs his dick, so Harry couldn’t get his mouth back on it even if Nick didn’t have a vice grip on his hair, and Nick’s swearing as the two of them wank him, hard and fast and tight, and Harry’s _right there_ to watch as Nick jizzes messily over their hands and the top of his jeans. 

“Ugh,” Nick says, and Harry laughs, delighted and a little awed. “Sorry if I got you.” 

“I was gonna let you come in my mouth,” Harry answers teasingly, noticing that Nick did, indeed, get some on his knee. “But if making a mess is your thing, I can work with it.” 

“Shut up. God. You’d think I’ve never wanked before.” He wipes his hand on his jeans and reaches under Harry’s arms to pull him up. “You obviously distracted me.” 

“That’s such a line,” Harry says. But he’s still got a stupid grin on his face. 

“Whatever. It’s true. Now, come here. My turn.” With Harry standing between his knees, Nick eases his jeans down his thighs, pushing until Harry’s choices are step out of them or trip if he tries to move. He can’t wait to get them off, so the former is the clear winner. 

When that’s done Harry expects Nick to swap places, or maybe just put Harry on the sofa, but instead he keeps him there, hands on his hips holding him still, and he looks. At Harry’s face first, but then at where his dick’s left a wet spot on his pants, turning the bright orange into something more pumpkin. 

“Thought I was going to choke on my own tongue when I woke up and saw you standing there in these pants,” he says, looking up at Harry’s face again. “Do you even know what you look like in them?” 

“Good enough to eat?” Harry asks, jokingly, but not without a hint of hope, too.

He gets a smile and Nick hooking his thumbs under the waistband. “If you insist.” 

Harry doesn’t like to insist, so instead he cocks his hips forward, making sure Nick can see just how hard he is, the exact size of the wet spot. “Good point,” Nick says. “Well made.” He tugs Harry forward until his knees bump the sofa, then leans in and blows a stream of cold air over the wet tip of Harry’s cock. 

Shit, that’s cold. Harry shivers nearly out of Nick’s grip, but his dick is like, _yes, please, more of that_ , and it pushes a desperate sound from Harry’s throat, and Nick does it again. “Fuck,” Harry says this time, pushing closer, grabbing on to Nick’s shoulders. 

“’S good?” Nick asks.

“It’s evil.” Harry wiggles a little, making sure Nick doesn’t forget his dick is waiting. “I like it.” 

This time, Nick puts his whole mouth on Harry’s dick through his pants, and the air is hot, and feels like it’s wrapping all around him. It’s—Harry laughs a little manically—“A literal blow job,” he says roughly. 

Nick sucks wet and hot, then draws in a breath that feels like ice on Harry’s skin before pulling back far enough to say, “Thought you’d like that.” 

Like is not nearly a strong enough word. 

And Nick keeps going. Hot, cold, wet, pressure, all alternating with the maddening friction of him rubbing wet cloth over Harry’s cockhead with the tip of his tongue. Harry’s shaking, trying to keep his legs under him, wishing he were lying down, but wondering if this would be even half as good without that added strain. It definitely wouldn’t be as good without Nick’s hands gripping and stroking and kneading his arse. And without the view of his own hands white-knuckled on Nick’s shoulders, Nick’s curls a riot against the purple stripe of his waistband and the out-of-season tan on his abs. 

It’s so good and so much and goes on so long, that Harry’s not even sure when he starts begging, or what exactly he’s begging for. _More_ , and _please_ , and he just wants to _come_ , and still Nick teases and sucks and licks and blows, until finally, _finally_ Nick pulls Harry’s dick out and puts it in his mouth. Harry wants to cry it’s so good. He bucks forward without even meaning to, no longer in control of what his body is doing, but Nick’s got it, hands and mouth moving with him, and Harry only manages a garbled sound before he’s coming, slipping out of Nick’s mouth, and falling forward against his chest.

 

Fortunately, Nick manages that too, gathering Harry into his lap, pulling his legs up onto the sofa, so they’re cuddled together instead of tangled in an awkward pile. Harry’s most impressed. He would tell Nick this, but he’s also about as capable of coherent speech as he is of purposeful movement, which is to say as capable as a bowl of cooked noodles. 

_Oh my god, noodles_. Noodles would be amazing. “Noodles,” Harry says into Nick’s neck. 

“The Thai place does noodles,” Nick murmurs, stroking Harry’s hair.

**

As first dates go, Harry definitely counts his sleepover with Nick an unqualified success. 

Despite the fact that he fell asleep before his food got there, wearing nothing but jizz stained pants and a dopy smile, and woke up almost two hours later wrapped in a blanket, his head on Nick’s lap, and the Simpsons on low in the background. There was a piece of ginger chicken in his hair, and he never could figure out if Nick was telling the truth that he didn’t know how it got there. 

His noodles, it turned out, were just as good cold. 

And the sex in Nick’s bed was just as good as the sex on the sofa. If not better. 

No, it was definitely better.

Their second date, Harry’s not so sure about. 

For a start, Aimee’s there. And Daisy. And Sadie Frost—who used to be married to Jude bloody Law, and has children who are Nick’s _godchildren_?!?—and Henry and George and Pixie. Which would be fine, as Harry really likes Nick’s friends and feels like maybe at least some of them are almost becoming his friends too, but Nick had specifically said, “I should take you out on a proper date, really,” and too many people crowded around too few tables shoved together at the pub doesn’t seem like what he’s come to expect a proper date to be. Nick isn’t even sitting next to him. 

Aimee and Daisy are doing their best to keep him occupied, but he’s doing a shite job of not sulking and giving Nick the evil eye, because he’d kept Niall company pre-gaming before his own date—not drink for drink, Harry’s not _stupid_ , but enough—and then drunk two beers too fast when he realized their date was a whole family affair. Aimee gives up pretending he’s good company first.

“He told you this was a date, didn’t he?” she asks, not, Harry thinks, unsympathetically.

Harry nods, not trusting himself to say anything before finding out whose side she’s really on. 

“He’s absolute _shit_ at dating,” she continues. 

“Total shit,” Daisy agrees. 

“Best thing to do, if you don’t mind some advice,” Aimee says, “is pretend he never said that. Pretend he said, ‘I’m meeting up with some friends, and I’d love it if you came with me, because you make me stupidly happy, and my friends really like you, and I like seeing your face.’ Because that’s what he meant.”

“He’s probably afraid that now you’ve seen him naked, if he takes you out alone, you’ll wonder what the hell you ever saw in him and run for the hills.” Daisy shoots Nick a narrow-eyed look as she says this, but Nick is oblivious, turned toward Henry, who is telling a story that involves a lot of making faces on his part and laughter on Nick’s. 

“Whereas this is _less_ likely to make that happen?” Harry asks, a tiny bit less grumpily. 

“Aimee’s right, though. We do really like you.” Daisy pats his hand in a way that manages to be comforting rather than patronizing despite the circumstances. 

“If you want a date, date, you should probably tell him you want help picking out some, I don’t know, jacket, or a new pair of shoes or something, then claim to be hungry, then ask him ba— no, you have a hundred flatmates, don’t you. Maybe don’t ask him back to yours. Ask yourself back to his. He likes that, actually. And there you have it. Bit of shopping, nice dinner, and a shag for afters.” Aimee looks very pleased with her plan. 

“Why does he think I won’t like him, though?” Harry asks. “Is it because I mostly date girls?” 

Daisy and Aimee look at each other. “No, honey,” Daisy assures him. “I’m pretty sure Nick would date girls himself if he could muster up the tiniest enthusiasm for pussy. He worries because he’s _Nick_.” 

That doesn’t make any sense. “But Nick’s _amazing_ ,” Harry says. “And he’s had tons of blokes.” 

“Mystery of the ages,” Aimee says. “Or, well, not a total mystery, though it seems like one now he’s outgrown his awkward teen years and gotten away from Oldham.” 

“I thought he liked his family?” Now Harry’s more confused than ever. 

“Oh he does,” Aimee says. “But growing up like he did wasn’t always easy for a queer kid who loved music and didn’t give a fuck about sports.” 

“Just don’t give up on him,” Daisy says.

Harry was never going to do that. He’d maybe been plotting a way to get Nick to tell him the truth if Nick didn’t want to shag him again, and trying to figure out how he was going to hear that without crying, at least not until he got home, but he was never going to give up on him. Sure, Nick’s only been his friend for a few months, but they’ve been pretty intense months, and Nick’s going to have to do a lot more than bring half of London on their date to make Harry want to lose his friendship. “I won’t,” he says. 

“Just remember,” Aimee says. “Come hang out with me and my friends because they think you’re great and I think you’re amazing.” She gives Harry a little shove. “Now go tell Henry I need to talk to him, and steal his seat. Then say to Nick, ‘Aimee said she knows what you’re doing, and she’s not impressed.’ And give him a kiss.” 

Harry’s had enough good advice from the women in his life to know when he should take it, so he does as Aimee says. Nick looks a bit surprised when Harry kisses him, but he puts an arm around his shoulders when Harry scoots his stool right in, and while it’s still not what he would call a _date_ , as nights with friends go, it’s a winner. 

**

For models with a halfway decent book, London Fashion week is always crazy, even if you aren’t walking the shows. Last-minute shoots, appearances, parties where you need to be photographed wearing next season’s fashions, on and on and on. But Harry makes sure his schedule is clear the day of Henry’s show. Now that Nick’s got the breakfast gig, even the non-fashion press think he’s a big deal. A big enough deal that his boyfriend gets to sit front row. Especially when his boyfriend is Harry Styles, who _washed out of ITVs X-Factor too soon_ , and is, according to the Daily Star, anyway, _taking London’s fashion scene by storm_. Though neither Harry nor Pauline have quite figured out what that storm is or where it’s going to hit land. It _is_ true at least that in the last nine months he’s become a semi-regular in the tabloids, out partying with supermodels and pop stars and his famous DJ boyfriend. 

The papers _haven’t_ picked up yet that he and Niall have started singing together, Niall on guitar and the two of them trading off singing melody and harmonies, Liam joining them sometimes if they’ve got a proper gig. They’ve only played pubs so far, so Harry’s okay with the lack of publicity. They’re young, yet, as Nick loves to remind him. They’ve got time. 

But he’s in the papers enough to get Front Row access, which he’s glad about. Henry’s show is special. Harry sees it as an anniversary of sorts, since it was at Henry’s show where he and Nick met. He’s learned enough about Nick that he doesn’t want to make him think too much about them being together a whole year once February rolls around, so Harry’s using this as his own little celebration of that time he almost fell off a catwalk and ended up falling in love with a man. 

They sit together with Kelly and Pixie and the other people the papers want pictures of, and wait for the girls to come out in their dresses. Harry tries to watch the band and the other attendees, but he can’t keep his eyes off Nick. He’s looking particularly hot today, with a fresh haircut, a flannel shirt he stole from Harry and left unbuttoned almost down to the love bite Harry’d left on his chest two days before, and ripped black jeans with Harry’s favourite pair of boots. It makes Harry want to do him right here on the floor between front row and the catwalk, but he restrains himself. 

“What is with you today?” Nick asks when he turns to find Harry’s face just a few inches from his. “You okay?” 

“I love you,” Harry blurts. 

It’s not the first time, but it’s the first time when they aren’t curled together in bed, almost asleep. Harry’d planned something a bit more romantic for the first time with the lights on. 

But Nick apparently doesn’t need romantic. He smiles, and kisses the tip of Harry’s nose. “I love you too, idiot. Now shush. It’s starting.” 

Indeed, the music’s swelled and the curtains are moving, and the models are coming out. 

Nick threads his fingers through Harry’s and gives his hand a squeeze. As the first models reach the end of the catwalk and turn to go back the other way, Nick leans over and whispers in his ear, “I hope none of them fall.” 

Harry whispers back, “It might be their luck if they do.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can also find me [here on tumblr](http://river-b.tumblr.com/)


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